She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. Pitt, pointing to the prisoner. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. Neither of them believed me. Read it, and you'll find that your unfortunate uncle, Sir Rowland, surrenders to you all the estates in Lancashire.
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