“Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. I don't care how soon he learns that he has lost his adopted son. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. As for himself, there had never been a touch of it. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. You get one, you get them all.
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