After a brief conversation, which Sheppard sustained with his accustomed liveliness, the old man turned to Bess and addressed a few words of common-place gallantry to her. He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. “I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. After all, life had still its pulsations. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity.
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