"You'd better surrender quietly, Jack," he cried; "you've no chance. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. Trenchard glanced at the document.
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