” She disengaged herself from him and went out of the room with a grave, preoccupied expression. 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. She gasped with pain, but she did not release her grip. “Come in. If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly.
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