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. It was a moment before he recognised that the effect had been similar on all those present, including General Lord Charvill. Let’s have an advance round of applause for our concertmaster, 249 Lucy Albert!” Lucy was horrified. Then he had gone away. He became angry. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. Sheppard, he turned to quit the churchyard. I don’t understand the workings of a gentleman’s mind. Deserted by his older companion in iniquity, and instigator to crime, he did not know what might become of him; nor, as we have observed, was the sad spectacle he had just witnessed, without effect.
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