Mr. " "More blood! more blood!" cried Trenchard, passing his hand with agony across his brow. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. In the matter of his conscience he was primitive; and for an educated man to become primitive is to become something of a child.
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