Get it off your soul. “Because I hate you!” She spat. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Sheppard—becomes entitled to the estates; which eventually—provided he escaped the gallows—would descend to her son. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face.
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