Blue haze had settled beyond the black silhouettes of trees, graduating to the deep violet that began the night sky. It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your thanks. The smell assaulted them even before they entered the restaurant, greasy and savory. “Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said.
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