Then he stood up and repeated it again. \"Can I get your ticket?\" He asked her as she approached the vendor. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. His countenance was almost as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. "It is," replied Sheppard. 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.
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