A long chest under one of the windows was open, some of its contents dragged out and spilling onto the floor. "I cannot sign it," returned Trenchard. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. The crowning aspect of the incident, for her mind, was the discovery that he and her indiscretion with him no longer mattered very much.
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