"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Wonderful! The water, dripping from you, must have looked like pearls. Can't I make you understand? Perhaps it sounds cruel to you; but we women often have to be cruel defensively. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. Come and have lunch with me. “I thank you for your advice,” she said.
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