She could think of nothing more to say. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. They showered together. ‘I find you excessively rude, both of you,’ said the lady crossly.
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