Sheppard. ” The detective turned again to Anna. She calmed herself, breathing deeply. "Is this Misther Wudd's, my pretty miss?" demanded the rough voice of the Irish watchman. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him.
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