Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle. “Dear John,” she whispered. Ascertaining that it was Sheppard of whom this concourse was in pursuit, the two horsemen leapt the hedge, and were presently close upon him. She lived, he noted, very carelessly.
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