He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He had mentioned teaching her how to read Latin one day when she had wandered into the library. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. She was recalling the circumstances under which she had engaged herself to Manning, and trying to understand a curious development of the quality of this relationship. "Perhaps things would have been different if she had lived. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration.
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