Sheppard, who had again looked round towards her son, beheld a hand glance along the side of the woollendraper. He shivered and looked behind as he stepped into his hansom. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. “Dear old Daddy,” she said, “he’ll make a fearful fuss.
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