The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. Stunning and continuous, the din seemed almost to take away the power of hearing. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. It is not at all comme il faut. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. "There's his knock.
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