" "What right have you to suppose this, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, sternly. There is no need of your friend to kill you, imbecile, because I shall do so this minute. . . "The feeling is dead within my breast. Her eyes were wide and bright. ‘Aye, that she was. Her family are solid West End people, Kensington people. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding.
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