"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. His bodily suffering, however, was nothing compared with his mental anguish. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. You cannot—shall not retreat. Even if you pretend sometimes to be without sense. "You've ruined my hopes.
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