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" "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. I didn’t! I didn’t! After all—” For a time her mind ran on daintiness and its defensive restraints as though it was the one desirable thing. We don’t want things to happen. But she veiled her feelings. " "Farewell, Jack," cried twenty voices. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar.

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