She vanished from the laboratory for a week, a week of oddly interesting days. While the watermen were contending with the eddies occasioned by the fall below the bridge, Jonathan observed a perceptible shudder run through Trenchard's frame. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. That is very bad indeed. He smiled. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. "The key," replied the widow.
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