"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, the pink colour coming and going in her cheeks was very delicate and girlish. She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself. If you had arrived ten minutes later, or if there hadn't been an iron bar in the chimney, that hindered my progress, I should have been beyond your reach. "Is it you?" "It is," replied Sheppard, as he untied the cords.
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