“Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. He was a large oafish man, a man that seemed deceptively harmless, and some thought him slightly retarded. John Sheppard. The day was sunny and pleasant, devoid of chill winds. ‘Not here. God knows how you did it. She wanted to come, and I wouldn't let her. I’ve bored you or something. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon.
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