She peered into the darkness. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. Sheppard, which she gratefully declined. Sheppard let fall her basket. But the world didn’t do that. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes.
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