" "What right have you to suppose this, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, sternly. Believe me, it will be better by far that you should consent to marry me. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. It could not go on much longer, her luck. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. “Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly.
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