Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. Was she so bad a prospect? ‘No good, Melusine,’ said a new voice from the doorway. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air.
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