I thought that you were he. "Enough," said the widow, gratefully. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. You've saved my life. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. ’ ‘Yes, Hilary, do stop hustling the girl,’ put in Miss Froxfield, much to Melusine’s relief and approval.
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