“And I have dragged you all over here for nothing,” she murmured. " "You would, if you had seen what I have. How's that strike you?" "Very well, sir. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. I believe I am getting impudent. ” She laughed. She listened, her suspicions confirmed. He was accustomed to such surprises, and enjoyed them. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth.
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