“The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. "Where am I to take it to?" asked Sheppard. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. "I want you for the job I spoke of a short time ago, Nab," he said.
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