“Ohmigod, Katy, you fucking killed her!” A trio of girls sniggered. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. As they neared the house, Jack Sheppard, who led the way, halted and addressed his companion in a low voice:— "I don't half like this job, Blueskin," he said; "it always went against the grain. "I'll not believe it. Where the devil have you hidden all those weapons? Don’t tell me you’ve got ’em with you.
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