Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. “You are one of those who must know all about it. She was mentally transported for an instant to the old castle in Herculis. Did you ever go by any other names, ma’am?” “Yes. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard.
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