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They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. “A silly little priestess who knew nothing of life at all until she came to you. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp. Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark. He would require things of her, and she would be passionately concerned to meet his requirements. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester.
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