"Not so," replied Jack, throwing down the skreen. He temporized, and the girl raised her eyes once more to his. I'll dispose of the brat. He had never wanted daughters. β βIs it necessary to send for the police?β Anna asked. Anna nodded as she briskly crossed the pavement. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him.
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