"What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily. " So saying, he bowed and departed. Long ago. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. She wondered wildly why she had stood up. She laughed nervously, but kept her eyes averted. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. The joke of it is that he’s married to her now, and cuts me dead.
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