" "Where are the assassins?" cried Sheppard. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. “You will not give Sir John any cause for jealousy? You will have no secrets from him except—concerning those things which are past?” “Anna, I swear it!” her sister sobbed. “Shit!” John quickly countered, “What are you going to do? She’s a motor-mouth, Lucy, of the worst kind.
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