Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. All the linen was new and stamped with the mark of Whiteaway, Laidlaw & Co. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. " "Sir Rowland is dead," replied Jonathan, gloomily. He looked like an animated skeleton that someone had hung a smelly 105 brown beard upon. "I was only just in time.
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