"I didn't mean to give offence," replied Sheppard, sulkily. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. Let’s go up to my room.
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