58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. " "My God!" cried Trenchard, stunned by the intelligence, "I have killed her. Kneebone, Van Galgebrok, and Baptist Kettleby—all of whom greeted him cordially. Drive away the cat; throw that measure of gin through the window; and tell me why you've not so much as touched the packing-case for Lady Trafford, which I particularly desired you to complete against my return. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands.
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