She rapped on Michelle’s door loudly. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. ‘Perhaps I could indeed rescue you if only you would confide in me. I’m convinced that much of Russell’s investigations are on wrong lines, unsound lines. "It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me.
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