"Is she alive?" "She is not," replied Trenchard, overcome by conflicting emotions, and unable to endure the boy's agonized look. She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. ‘Who’s this, then? Not soldiers again.
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