I’m not such a bad sort. But you have, haven’t you?’ He tutted again. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. The practice has been common for thousands of years. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis.
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