"I can," replied Trenchard. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. Through that she had to go. “What have you been doing since our last talk? Still cutting up rabbits and probing into things? I’ve often thought of that talk of ours—often. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling.
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