" "I see. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. She rapped again, louder. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. The only inconvenience I feel from my shattered noddle is an incapacity to drink. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt.
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