She was particularly charmed by his theory of friendship. " "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement. He was a philosopher. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. ‘Where’s the sense in running away?’ ‘Doesn’t trust me,’ Gerald said briefly. "Oh no—no! You say this to terrify me—to try me. ” “Don’t use such a word, my dear young lady,” Mr. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. A dissipated, loose-living man. Let him be sure. A queer game this: he could not move directly as in an ordinary case of manhunt.
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