"I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin.
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