His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. Ennison, or any other young man. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. Sheppard had been interred.
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