She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. Sheppard let fall her basket. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. Still, my tutor was a highly educated scholar—my father. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. Against the walls hung an assortment of staves, brown-bills, (weapons then borne by the watch,) muskets, handcuffs, great-coats, and lanterns. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then.
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