“Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. Wood had been my father, as well as yours. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. .
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