"I do," replied Sheppard. ’ ‘Comment? You wish to murder me?’ ‘No, I wish to beat you,’ he retorted. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. ’ ‘You, perhaps?’ she flung at him furiously, stepping out from behind the desk. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. .
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