She would take this one back with her. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. He waited for hours after dusk but she never arrived. As soon as she reached this spot, Wild sprang ashore, and was joined by several persons, —among whom was Quilt Arnold, leading a horse by the bridle,—he hastened down the stairs to meet him. A slow anger burned in the man. ‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it.
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