She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. “What the devil are you doing star-gazing here?” Ennison looked at him in surprise. Dese ere not schouts, as you faind, but jonkers on a vrolyk; and if dey'd chanshed to keel de vrow Sheppard's pet lamb, dey'd have done her a servish, by shaving it from dat unpleasant complaint, de hempen fever, with which its laatter days are threatened, and of which its poor vader died. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her.
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