‘They lived with him, one after the other, for all the world as his wife. This too shall pass. Were you born here, madame?’ ‘Mais non. "I can," replied Trenchard. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. This is a case either of suicide or murder. A dresser, a washstand, and a clothes press. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. “I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said.
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