“Yes, I will go,” she promised, with a queer little smile. Good-looking girl. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. Too intent on her search, and convinced besides that she was quite alone, she had been an easy prey. Heaven alone knows why. For a time her efforts to achieve a comprehensive concentration were dispersed by the passage of the village street of Caddington, the passing of a goggled car-load of motorists, and the struggles of a stable lad mounted on one recalcitrant horse and leading another. Steps to aid the descent, which was too steep to be safe without them, led to, a door on the opposite side. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight. She obeyed, extending her arm. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour.
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