His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. They’re fairly intricate little things. Moving room to room it was. The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. John Sheppard. He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. She never grew angry for anything her husband did: such anger as came to her was directed against the lazy, incompetent servant who was always snooping about in the inner temple—Spurlock's study.
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