"I didn't expect this from you," rejoined Thames, resolutely. Twelve years, then, have elapsed since the date of the occurrences detailed in the preceding division of this history. In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester.
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