Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. ‘How dull it must have been for you, poor little one. One OUGHT to want to please her. He walked across the Park and called upon his sister. " "Ah!" shrieked Lady Trafford. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. See paragraph 1. She felt a cheat and a sneak to his unsuspecting retreating back.
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