To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. ‘Well?’ she said. Over one of the pinnacles of the tower a speck of pallid light marked the position of the moon, then newly born and newly risen. “It’s funny, the way a good house feels. Though nearly dark, there was still light enough left to enable him to discern surrounding objects. Wow. ‘She won’t like it,’ prophesied the captain gloomily. But her heart kept on sinking.
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