"Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard. Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned. She located her foster family. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. She slid the dress off, naked underneath. He was well mounted, as was his companion; and had pistols in his holsters, and a hanger at his girdle. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Hartford, Connecticut; she had registered that address; but there was something so mystifyingly Oriental about her that the address only thickened the haze behind which she moved.
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