"I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. The boy doesn't know it, but I dug into his trunk for something to identify him and stumbled upon some manuscripts. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. He was only a younger son, and you know what trouble we had. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. . “No!” she exclaimed. But you could have just as easily lost your womb in the Pestilence, and your life.
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