You called yourself a murderess. ” True summer descended like a sticky fever upon August’s arrival, bringing with it miasmas of humidity that seemed to hang from the trees like mucus. 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. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. ” She shook her fist ceilingward.
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