A species of vertigo seized him. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. "Good-bye, Mac. It must be my fault that you have not learnt that your husband is the man to come to—at such a time as this. " At this moment, Saint Sepulchre's clock struck six. " "Two can play at that game, my blood," replied Sheppard, rising, and putting himself into a posture of defence. He wore a black tail coat buttoned tightly over his chest, and a large diamond pin sparkled in a white satin tie which had seen better days. “It was perhaps my fault.
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