There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate. “It jars. Sheppard, you mean, Sir," interrupted his wife, ironically. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it. A small voice greeted her, hissing.
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