"Aha! my lad!" he cried without appearing to regard the pain of the wound; "now I'll show you no quarter. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Rhea commanded her. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred.
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