. . Master and missis have been talking all day long about Jack Sheppard, and I'm dying to read his life. Capes stood side by side upon an old Persian carpet that did duty as a hearthrug in the dining-room of their flat and surveyed a shining dinner-table set for four people, lit by skilfully-shaded electric lights, brightened by frequent gleams of silver, and carefully and simply adorned with sweet-pea blossom. They’re just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. There was a murmur or two among the watchers on the bench, but no one ventured to intervene again. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. Howard Spurlock. ‘But the fact remains that you should not have enjoyed it, you were quite right to threaten to kill me, and I— God help me!—should not have kissed you at all. ‘I am not in the least in a rage.
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