"It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. "Get up, then," said Jack, freeing his foot from the stirrup. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. I cannot let you go.
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