“Miss Pellissier,” he said, “these gentlemen are your friends, and therefore they are my friends. 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. ‘Merci, dieu. She did this to please him. ” She gestured to an abandoned farmhouse down a long stretch of icy dirt road.
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