I know not who you are; and, as I cannot discern your face, I may be doing you an injustice. Melusine, I’ve remembered something that may help you. " "Tell it. “Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. I don’t know what has come over me. " "That 'ud be no such easy matter," replied the countryman.
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