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She listened, listened intently for several minutes. That is what my mother used to call me. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back. I would be chased by every curious party on this planet, by vampireseekers, by witch-hunters, by researchers, you name it. Because of the thought of love and companionship? No.
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