"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. "We shall meet again ere long, my son," cried Mrs. ” “I ought to have—all the same. ‘As for you—’ ‘Do not address me. I've come all these miles for this young fellow; but I don't cotton to the idea of lallygagging four weeks in this burg. The chair is in the veranda. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound.
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