She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. I didn’t understand. “I will send you a copy,” Mr. 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. ’ It had not before occurred to him, but this realisation fuelled the general’s growing conviction that he was being imposed upon in some way.
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