A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. "But what is an oath to you!" cried the widow, distrustfully. "If you are human," rejoined Trenchard, with stern emphasis, "I insist upon knowing whence you derived your information?" "I might refuse to answer the question, Sir Rowland. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. "Do not endanger yourself on my account," rejoined his mother. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. Now drop it.
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