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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. “I was sick of the make-believe. ” Courtlaw seemed about to say something. “Is there any urgency?” The doctor bent over his patient, who seemed to have fallen asleep. All make the same answer—'d—n you, keep it.
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