"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. ’ The sword was released to slide back into its scabbard. "It's a fine idea, my child, but you mustn't do it. Good-bye, for the pressent—ha! ha!" And, laughing loudly at his own facetiousness, he quitted the Lodge. Even that he was an interfering person, if he walked through that door this moment, she would fling herself at him and weep all over his chest. “Don’t!” she said, weakly, as he had bent down and put one arm about her and seized her hands with his disengaged hand and kissed her—kissed her almost upon her lips. . She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. Just then—I was nervous.
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