"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. This lady is my wife, and I have a right to be here. Tell me why you ran away from the convent. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. There was all the knavery, and more than all the drollery of a Spanish picaroon in the laughing eyes of the English apprentice; and, with a little more warmth and sunniness of skin on the side of the latter, the resemblance between them would have been complete.
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