For so far she had kept it uncashed. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. Very well, I give up. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. But it's best to be on the safe side. I have not found the secret way into the house, for instance.
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