“That was a moment of madness,” she said. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. She went on from street to street, and all the glory of London had departed. Why on earth couldn’t he leave her to grow in her own way? Her pride rose at the bare thought of return. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name.
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