"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Winter came: rainy, damp, and savage. . The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. Lucy followed. So let me assure you now that we are not accusing you of a crime. Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. By policemen one mustn’t shock. Lucy's grin faded. At the cost of quite a number of torn drafts she succeeded in evolving this: “DEAR MR.
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