Let me have more light, that I may behold him. When she looked into their eyes, her despair put her beyond tears. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. By his side sat a remarkably stout dame, to whom he paid as much attention as it was in his iron nature to pay. . .
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