They sat in the front row. Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. "You've hit it," answered Sheppard. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. In all other respects they differed as materially. I quickly ingratiated myself to Gianfrancesco, playing on his insecurities, drawing from his need for more and more power. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. The gentlemen are so particular now, and a good thing too, I say. .
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