In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. " "Two can play at that game, my blood," replied Sheppard, rising, and putting himself into a posture of defence. “I don’t mean simply intensity of sensation. ” “That’s rather a fine sort of holiday!” He made no answer for three or four seconds.
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