" "Wrong? What the devil could be wrong?" McClintock had demanded, irascibly. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. Of course, at home there would have been questions. The whole story of your relationship is a fabrication. But this is like—like walking round a house that looks square and complete and finding an unexpected long wing running out behind.
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