"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. Before he could return, Jack had made good his retreat; and, wandering about the lanes and hedges, kept out of sight as much as possible. Even you have not been able to hold her back. You seemed to me to be slipping and slipping, and your face was white. Let him not bear the weight of my punishment.
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