Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. Daughters were in the air that day. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. There was question in Gerald’s gaze as it met hers, and apology in his voice. Its heroes never had daughters, they borrowed other people’s.
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