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He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. ’ ‘Eh bien, you are not a saint,’ Melusine snapped. Then there was also the horse. And yet the secondary emotion was one of suspicion. He appeared to be a stranger to the prisoner, and the sole motive of his visit, curiosity. I have brought disgrace upon you, and I haven’t been the right sort of wife at all.
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