If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. 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. He thought rationally; that is to say, he thought clearly, as a child thinks clearly. She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire.
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