He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Wild himself if I met him," retorted Jack. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. Paintings sold off the walls.
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