Wood uttered something like an imprecation. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. CHAPTER I. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. I put your clothes out an hour ago. "Let us in," said the Master, rapping his truncheon authoritatively against the boards, "or we'll force an entrance.
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