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"Now, give me the woollen cloth to tie round my fetters," whispered Sheppard. He knocked on the doorframe. " "What gives you that idea?" "Well, we could find no letter of credit, no letters, no labels in his clothes—not a single clew to his real identity. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. Annabel, I was lying. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase.
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