Time was moving so fast, she could no longer count the days since Gosse had come to her with his preposterous suggestion at the Coq d’Or, where they were staying and where he had robbed her and left her and Martha to their fate. The tired woman looked quietly at her. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear.
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