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He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. Now he thought she was so foolish that she knew only one stroke. ” He resumed, after a mouthful: “Here is a girl of sixteen or seventeen, seventeen and a half to be exact, running about, as one might say, in London. Observe it—a blue-serge coat. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. .
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