Everything was going to hell. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. She would buy a Greyhound ticket to New Orleans, make a kill or two, then travel into Texas and seduce some wandering man into taking her to Mexico, feast upon him once they got there. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet. But there must be an Englishman who would like to marry her to get Remenham House. Amidship there was also canvas, and like that over the wheel, drab and dirty.
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