Manning, with a sweep of the arm. "Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. "Well, Jack," said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cutand-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; "how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. Not afraid of me, either. Brendon. But here’s what is different this time. On the envelope was written— Sydney Courtlaw, Esq. It slipped out—as did that “she”. Fortunately, I've secured the proof of my birth.
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