"You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. ‘And how is it that you have acquired this garb of a religieuse?’ he asked as she fitted the veil over her head. "I cannot—will not suffer you to remain here. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. He went to the door. I can bear anything but suspense. He looked at her with an expression of comical despair. “It may be more difficult than you think,” she said. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. ‘That’s better,’ said Gerald, and let her go.
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