The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. I didn’t ought to have sent for him. 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. They say it hasn't been opened for eight years—but I won't be eight years in getting out of it. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer.
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