"You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. Wood obeyed. I felt as though I had bandaged eyes. By a miracle, he averted its path, his hold on the girl’s mouth shifting fast to grasp her wrist.
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