I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do. She treaded down the hall swiftly but stopped abruptly when she heard a voice in back of her. But Sheppard took no notice of the exclamation. She’s taken my sword. Let me keep you from that man’s clutches. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad.
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