Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. The prisoner was then thrust in by Quilt. He must have married when he was quite a young man. " "Your hesitation is not in your favour," observed Trenchard, sternly. It is repulsive.
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