” “Then you had better ring the bell,” she declared, laughing. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. They were so nearly alike that the difference would be due to a shaky hand. ” Her father interrupted. Gone off, cool as you please, and left me to manage everything.
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