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Sheppard had been interred. Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp. What a pig she was. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. But what a monster was this Emile. What was the old tabby at? Unaccountably embarrassed, he cleared his throat.
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