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 of him? In all their bickerings she had never shown the white feather. Scorn had been met with scorn, hate with hate. Lack of courage had never been one of her failings. Yet she quivered with apprehension. Nor at that mo- ment did she guess the true reason of that in- comprehensible terror.

Without protest she seated herself in an armchair, her back to the window. He dropped easily on to the sofa and faced her, his eyes in hers, his fingers carelessly twirling his mous- tache. She thought it looked heavy and for- bidding in the semi-gloom, and once it had almost found favour in her eyes. She was con- scious of the banality of the thought, conscious of a multiplicity of thoughts which bore no direct relation to the one thought which was of paramount importance.

“The days are drawing in,” he said. She could almost have smiled at the remark; yet she nodded affirmatively. “Have you any ob- jection to the light?”

“None whatever.”

“You never had, if I remember.”

What did it matter? Every minute was

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