” Her thoughts went into solution for a time, while she listened to a lark singing. Probably some woman on the loose; they were as thick as flies over here—dizzy blondes. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. She had money of her own—much more than I have—and there was no need to squabble about that. Until Leonardo. Sheppard snatched back her hand from his grasp, and exerted all her force to repel his advances. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. Close upon this came another thought. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes.
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