The perception of him flooded her being. “Good evening, Dorling,” he said. I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. She looked into his eyes, truly noticing their gray color for the first time. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. There came to O'Higgins the discouraging knowledge that upon the heels of a wonderful chase—blindman's buff in the dark—would come a stretch of dull inaction.
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