“Dare!” she said. ” “I want you to turn me. ” “Perhaps you don’t. [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Photoplay. Look at me. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. Sheppard, passing her hands over his face, and gazing at him with a look that made him shudder.
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