Horrible details recurred to her. "I would sacrifice all my fortune—all my hopes —to liberate him. However, to cut a long matter short, my proposal's this: —I've taken a fancy to your bantling, and, as I've no son of my own, if it meets with your concurrence and that of Mrs. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. More than this, it would serve to mitigate her own abysmal loneliness to pool it temporarily with his. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. To-morrow I am going to Paris. But I am not indisposed to gratify you. How she learned of her heritage I do not know, but you need not imagine that it is greed that drives her.
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