A slow heavy thumping started up in Melusine’s chest, and she scarcely took in the astonished silence in those present in the room. She might even forgive him. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting.
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