It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking. O'Higgins struck a match and lit his Henry Clay, thereby drawing upon himself the mutual disapproval of the spinsters. None saw, though all felt, his presence, and heard the thunder of his voice. Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. " "You are heiress to the Trenchard property," rejoined Jonathan, "one of the largest estates in Lancashire. Probably a sick man's whim. I had no idea she could go so fast.
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