“Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. Sheppard raised her eyes, and fixed them upon her interrogator. ” She paused. She let him have it all, as it was, after all, for the last time.
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