"Aw, piffle!" he said, half aloud and rather disgustedly, as he stepped out into the sunshine. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. "I am no murderer," replied Sheppard. Sheppard, with a vehemence that shook even the hardened wretch beside her, "begone, and tempt me not. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips.
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