Can’t face a scandal. He turned. “Mr. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. A dissipated, loose-living man. “I had a dream in the night,” she said. She remembered possessing it during the Gold Rush. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation.
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