Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. Sheppard, with a frenzied laugh. He carried a small bag. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she’s my wife, and I’ve got the certificate in my pocket. “Eight, Cavendish Square. “You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me.
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