The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. Sheppard. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. She moaned as his lips caressed her neck, almost to where the dress met her shoulder. He recoiled from the sting. She’s obsessed with him, you know, totally obsessed. ‘Don’t concern yourself, Hilary. ‘Gabbling and muttering in a foreign tongue, that’s what I heard, sir,’ had declared the gap-toothed ancient, when he told them of the initial foray he had made, sneaking around the house in the dark. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. After all, she only LOOKED a woman. " "Readily.
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