This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. The faithful fellow will never leave me. “They all catch on,” she said. “Think of what people will say!” That became a refrain. Three short days. Mere formality. Sheppard, sinking backwards upon the pallet. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. Somewhere she had read that it was the proper thing to do and that men liked to be alone with their tobacco. But in between these wider phases of comparative confidence were gaps of disconcerting doubt, when the universe was presented as making sinister and threatening faces at her, defying her to defy, preparing a humiliating and shameful overthrow.
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