"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. ‘Here we go again. ‘It looked to me as if he was playing games with Madame Valade,’ Lucilla said frankly.
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