It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. "Egad!" exclaimed Wood, "you've hit the right nail on the head, anyhow. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag.
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