She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. God send the fellow did turn out to be a spy! Beckoning Roding on, Gerald crept down the corridor towards the source of the swishing he had heard.
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