Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. She was saying good-bye to childhood and home, and her making; she was going out into the great, multitudinous world; this time there would be no returning. He knew she had been weeping. Sir Rowland," he added, in a deep whisper, "do you agree to my terms?" "I do," answered Trenchard, in the same tone. .
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