He’s riding down the drive. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. "Ah!" she screamed, seeing the uplifted weapon in Sheppard's hand, "don't hurt Thames—don't, dear Jack! If you want to kill somebody, kill me, not him. “DON’T!” she said, and wrenched her wrist from his retaining hand.
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