Trenchard glanced at the document. In fact, Kimble was drowsily awake when she entered the little bedchamber, the state of which left a good deal to be desired, even without the added debris arising from tending a wounded man. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. Too busy. He'd have some fun with that Chinaman before the morning was out. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. A deadlock. Send for Mr.
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