I hear her coming. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. She threw out a hand to stop herself from cannoning into them and, losing balance, tripped over her own petticoats and fell to the carpeted floor, her hat falling off as she did so. Her hair had become so matted that Sebastian had sheared it off, which made her the very mirage of a nubile young boy. She was practically destitute of jewellery. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked.
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