I waited for her at the back. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. "Is she alive?" "She is not," replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy's agonized look. There was more to be told, and this was as good a time as any. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent.
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