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. Ann Veronica was one of the few young people—and one must have young people just as one must have flowers—one could ask to a little gathering without the risk of a painful discord. She unlaced his pants and slid them down his hips, examining him as he stood before her naked. Nuns, I mean. "Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely.
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