“Let me think,” said Ann Veronica. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding. It has been only the sort of nonsense which passes lightly enough between half the men and women in London. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. "Does your father doubt it? Speak! tell me!" Winifred made no answer. Gianfrancesco became agitated.
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