He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Sheppard uttered a piercing scream. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. “I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” he said.
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