"Is she alive?" "She is not," replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy's agonized look. “I wonder,” she said, “how much you care. His name was Peter. The Well Hole. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace.
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