” Sir John’s head bent lower and lower. " "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. ‘You will please to tell this—this idiot to release me. He, therefore, desires to interrogate him. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. But I've stacks of books and a grand piano-player. Capes. You can’t possibly understand!” He began a confused explanation, a perplexing contradictory apology for his urgency and wrath. I didn’t think—I don’t know what I thought.
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