Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. "Where are the packets committed to your charge by Sir Rowland Trenchard?" "The packets!" exclaimed Kneebone, in alarm.
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