The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. He reached the top floor and ran down the corridor to the little dressing room at the end where he had lost her before. Don't unman him. Before a month has elapsed, your mother will be mine. Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. And what was singular she did not recount to the doctor that morning's adventure.
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