He would always be her friend, too. The hansom drove off. She found an old drunk wandering the streets. ‘Do not speak any more for you give yourself pain,’ said Melusine fearfully. "What's the matter?" he cried. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. 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 rambled in an unfortunate monotone, the result of his innate fear of public speaking. ‘Go on up to the boy, my dear.
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