“Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. Sheppard," replied Jonathan, mysteriously. He talked about his driver's license, how he would soon inherit his older brother's BMW. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. The young lady saw the change, and almost snorted.
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