Wood could stand it no longer. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. He heard the door close; and in a little while he fell into a doze; and there came a dream filled with broken pictures, each one of which the girl dominated. Jackson, to the swig. Speedily recovering himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, "You are mistaken, Sir. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland. The life of a girl presented itself to her as something happy and heedless and unthinking, yet really guided and controlled by others, and going on amidst unsuspected screens and concealments.
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