Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. “I think they do. The Ragged Edge.
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