For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. "Mr. "Yes; and I hope you'll take ample vengeance upon him," said Quilt. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served.
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