” “But how can I help it? How can I keep silence?” “Please!” she insisted. Perhaps she would have to charge this man and appear in a police-court next day. She wedged the towel between her legs. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester.
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