"But what does he mean by calling you a wanton? —you, my wife?" Enschede's hand slipped from his daughter's shoulder. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. He might have been a complete innocent, she did not know and did not bother to find out. "My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat.
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