Anna and her escort exchanged glances. He was beautiful and perfect, his blue eyes smiling at her. John Sheppard. . For the first time a definite doubt possessed him. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. He felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping away. At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked. “Let us put the lamp out,” she said; “the flames are ever so much better for talking,” and Ann Veronica agreed. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. He stood away from her.
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