She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. 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. ‘What are you going to do now, Gerald?’ He sipped his wine and shrugged. Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table.
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