He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. Or did he? Perhaps he had found another. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. ’ ‘Tchah!’ He glared at her. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. I somehow understood.
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