He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. E. He moaned. Let me see my child, if he is really here?" "Behold him!" returned Trenchard, taking Thames (who had been a mute, but deeply-interested, witness of the scene) by the hand, and leading him towards her. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. Amongst other things, he had just brought down an old laced bavaroy, a species of surtout much worn at the period. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them.
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