The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. “I am not sure,” Anna answered. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. ‘Who the devil is Leonardo?’ demanded Roding impatiently, asking the question that had leapt into the major’s mind. She had come to the end of her resources. .
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