In his way he was critical. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. A discreet husband would leave the dispensation of his bounty, where women are concerned, to his wife.
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