Light flooded the uncarpeted chamber, revealing the decayed state of the place. Sheppard, shuddering violently. Sheila had dropped glaring hints that she knew, which Chuck tacitly acknowledged with a lowered gaze. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. "He is," replied a portly personage, arrayed in a gorgeous yellow brocade dressing-gown, lined with cherry-coloured satin, and having a crimson velvet cap, surmounted by a gold tassel, on his head. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Horrible details recurred to her.
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