She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. " "Then this is not my child?" exclaimed she, with increased astonishment. Again the chalky pallor spread even to her lips, her eyes became lit with the old terror. “She doesn’t know. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. She took up a book and threw it down again.
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