” “How?” He asked. " "Graves. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. You know—I worship you. Nevertheless it was overwhelming. He had never liked to be hugged, but she wondered if his corporeal needs would be made apparent by human touch. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair.
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