. ” She stirred gently in her chair. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. The next hour makes, or mars you for ever.
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