The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. “Very likely,” he answered. “You too sing?” he asked. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. These sham ideals and advanced notions. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead.
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