” She demanded. ” The truth prevailed. ” She smiled grimly at the recollection of that lunch—tea and roll at a cheap café. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. "I disown you. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. “I have come for an explanation,” she said. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly.
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