Sir Montacute had three children—two daughters and yourself. She opened and read it at once. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. "Perhaps you don't know that this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat, I can assure you. Since her husband has laid me under such a weight of obligation, I couldn't, in honour, continue— hem!" and he took another explanatory pinch. If not, I'll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn. You are my prisoner, murderer. I'll forgive him if he does. Ruth will be a gold mine for a man of your peculiar bent.
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