" "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. ” A fair-haired young Englishman looked up from the depths of his easy chair. He glanced at it, and saw the bloodied blade. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. Does that boy live in some sort of personal cave? Like, I think he might even be thinking about asking you out again! That is what I think. An incredible road he had elected to travel; he granted that it was incredible; and along this road somewhere would be Desire. She felt him sometimes at night as he called to her in her dreams. I worshipped her and subdued myself.
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