She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. It is a matter of degree. He would condemn her to the vengeance of the mob all for refusing to marry him. No one could take the place for anything but what it was, and even Gosse hesitated in the doorway.
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