” She shook her fist ceilingward. "I do," replied Sheppard. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. She shuddered. His body went limp, and as he withdrew she ironically found herself at the doorway for the first time in her life of being truly aroused. Trenchard glanced at the document.
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