"It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. With a moment of inward shame he remembered his deportment towards Anna.
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