“Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. " With this, he was preparing to follow his friend, when their egress was prevented by the sudden appearance of Jonathan Wild and Blueskin. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. ’ She dropped to her knees before her old nurse and hugged the workroughened hand with both her own, looking up into Martha’s face where slow tears were tracing down her cheek. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion.
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