And for my part, if I were inclined to exercise my benevolence at all, it should be in favour of some more deserving object than that whining, hypocritical Magdalene. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. 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. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. You've never seen a typhoon, have you?" "No. " "Of course," rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, "but that's easily accounted for.
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