She was drawn first by Miss Miniver, and then by her own natural interest, into a curious stratum of people who are busied with dreams of world progress, of great and fundamental changes, of a New Age that is to replace all the stresses and disorders of contemporary life. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. "Why, how the devil did you happen to guess that?" cried the janizary. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester.
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