"I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. Nobody who cared. "You tried to do something that was fine, and … and civilization would not let you. He's coming. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. “Why did you lie to that man?” he asked fiercely. “There ought to be a Censorship of Books.
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