At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. ’ ‘The what, miss?’ asked Kimble, frowning. It was eleven o'clock. He was carelessly dressed, and there were marks of unrest upon his features. But not once in these ten years had they borne blossom or fruit. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.
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