Sheppard, averting her face to hide her tears. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. “Have you not missed me?” He inquired. Jackson, gallantly. "But, it strikes me, I've heard that Mrs. Could she hold him and manage the reins? If only Gerald had not gone. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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