He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. But though he visited Sir Rowland Trenchard's seat, Ashton Hall, he could gain no tidings of him, or of his uncle, Sir Rowland, who, it seems, has left the country. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor.
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