"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. Her eyes quizzed the major. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. She declined and finished with a few of her favorite excerpts from Scheherazade. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else.
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