"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. The major’s hand stilled. White assured her. Don’t say anything, she thought to herself, say nothing more, Martin. . She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. Then she was turning, ignoring the muttered cursing and the rattling that immediately ensued at the door. He seemed to be labouring under some great excitement. “No,” she said at last; “I’m a human being—not a timid female. " "From whom?" vociferated Trenchard. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles.
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