. She had killed him. Sheppard, hastily; "is that the name?" "Ay, ay, now I look again it is Trenchard. Good riddance. Just an idea of mine. Maybe later. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. " Silence. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night.
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