The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. Sheppard. Against the sinister, the threatening, monstrous inhumanity of the limitless city, there was nothing now but this supreme, ugly fact of a pursuit— the pursuit of the undesired, persistent male. He wanted to put on his overcoat and come after you and look for you—in London. Annabel thought, and thought again. "If any one's to blame, it's me. "There's another instance of your wilfulness and want of taste.
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