Gossip was the driving force in Sheila’s existence. 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 had never heard anything so unholy. She crept out of the shadows. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features.
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