"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. The girl’s eyes never left his face. He was nearly wincing. ” He made a step toward her. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. "Is it poison?" she asked. ‘What are the chances, do you think, of that thing being already cocked?’ ‘Probably not even loaded,’ suggested Hilary hopefully.
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