A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. She moaned as his lips caressed her neck, almost to where the dress met her shoulder.
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