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. . " Trenchard, meanwhile, whose gaze was fixed upon the boy, became livid as death, but he moved not a muscle. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. You know what's what. Will you?” She thought, and it seemed to him she had never looked so self-disciplined and deliberate and beautiful. ” The detective thrust his notebook into his pocket. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way.
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