Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. "I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard. She stood face to face with him, and his voice cut across her speech and made her stop abruptly. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. Killed is too kind a word. You’ll have to go back to Remenham House.
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