Opening her large black eyes, she fixed them upon him for a moment with a mixture of terror and loathing, and then averted her gaze. He glanced up. I don’t love you. 8. Sheppard. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine.
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