“It was a phase,” she said. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. ” He said to her, quite unsure of whether or not he was dreaming. It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible. “I do not know you,” she said coldly. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. He gave her silence in return. In any case, he is liable to discover it at any time.
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