Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. ‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. "I yield to fate. “Intolerable idiots!. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced.
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