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. His eyes were set too close together. “I am bored,” she said abruptly. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. He guided himself between her legs.
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