Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. Every one else does. Heaven forbid. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. " "He's no such thing!" cried Mrs. You couldn’t help it.
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