He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. 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 directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo.
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