"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. This time they would call it murder. But to plunge blindly into the unknown!" "I had to! I had to!" She had told him only the first part of her story. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. ” Mr. ” He made a step toward her. “No doubt about that,” Meddoes continued. ” “But waive that point. “You shall,” she said. I suppose that shocks one’s ideas.
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