Ennison roused himself with an effort, took a long drink from his whisky and soda, and lit a cigarette. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. He got up brusquely. 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’s Providence. Her cheeks flushed a dull red.
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