To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. “Of course you don’t. Do you know that he is very much in love with you?” Anna smiled. I went to the theatre that night. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester.
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