There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. Lucy stepped inside. . There was a Greyhound bus that she was overdue to ride. Sheppard, sinking backwards upon the pallet. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. “It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall.
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