’ She set down her glass with a snap. This extraordinary child had opened up an old channel through which it was no longer safe to cruise. "Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. She heard the sounds of Rhea scuttling about, and then feeding, brutally. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. It was 1582.
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