Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. ‘Wait for me. At this juncture, and just as a cuckoo-clock in the corner struck sis, Jack Sheppard walked into the room, with the packing-case under his arm. . ’ He scratched his chin as if he thought about it, but covertly kept a careful study of what he could see of her face. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. He stopped short of a group of adolescent saplings and turned the ignition off. He was beautiful and perfect, his blue eyes smiling at her.
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