“The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. Sheppard, you mean, Sir," interrupted his wife, ironically. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. “I’ve been to hear you lots of times. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me.
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