" "May be," returned the man gravely. She fought him with tooth and nail. "I didn't carry you off from old Wood to kill you, but to wed you. All sorts of battered tramps, junks and riff-raff of the seas trailed in and out. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. “Michelle knows!” Lucy stood in stunned silence for a moment, and then cursed.
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