"I don't know how it is," he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, "but I've a strange foreboding of ill. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. “The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. The young man looked at her. .
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