"Mother!" cried the son, "help!" "What is this?" shrieked Lady Trafford, raising herself on the couch, and extending her hands towards him. She began to weep in long, aching sobs. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. He contrived to break off his sister's match; and this he accomplished so cleverly, that he maintained the strictest friendship with Sir Cecil. He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her. The rest of his attire was nondescript. That's well.
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