" "And were I in yours," rejoined the woollen-draper, "I should be doubly apprehensive, because he's a professed friend. ‘Good God! Everett Charvill, as I live. "Ruth?" he called. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight. Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed.
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