" "Why not?" rejoined Mrs. It was painful to want him so much. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. " "You have extradition papers?" "What sort of a detective do you think I am?" countered O'Higgins. You called yourself a murderess.
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