“So is Mr. "Auntie?" he cried. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room. Sheppard. They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. “What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. Whatever anticipation Ann Veronica had formed of this vanished in the reality.
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