"Do you realize that you are several kinds of a damned scoundrel?" he began. ” John’s father added. ’ He frowned again. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. .
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