Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. You’re splendid stuff, you know, but you’ve got nothing ready to sell. Sir Rowland is one of us," he added, winking at his companions, "and so was his brother-in-law, Sir Cecil Trafford. " "From some of your associates?" "From your uncle, from my uncle,—Sir Rowland Trenchard.
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