"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Cosette sat under the table, still as a mouse, fondling her pitiful doll. “Indeed, I must implore you to return. ‘Their lawyers are working tirelessly, but they report that the situation is daily worsening. ” He crossed himself and grinned. " "Conduct me to your dwelling, Sir, without further delay," said Trenchard, sternly,—"to the boy. ” Lucy snickered.
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