"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. laws alone swamp our small staff. "Heaven be praised she knows me at last. "Then, by Heaven! you are a dead man!" replied Jack, cocking a pistol, and pointing it deliberately at his head. " "Don't scold him, father," interposed Thames; "he's been frightened enough already. You are going to accept a post as chorus girl, or super, or something of that sort. “Yes. “Here is my card. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered.
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