His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage. She was emerging from the primordial as Spurlock was declining toward it. Were the parents agreeable? Were they of age? Had the license been procured? But here, in a far country, only the velvet manacles of wedlock were necessary. "It's better," observed Sheppard, meaningly. At the same time he comprehended that she was as pure and lovely as the white orchid of Borneo and that she did not carry that ridiculous shield called false modesty. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. “How have you been, my dear? Up to no good, I see. “Is that plain?” she asked.
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