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The prisoner breathed with difficulty. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. Here was the place behind the shed where she had used to hide from Roddy’s persecutions, and here the border of herbaceous perennials under whose stems was fairyland. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. ‘What we have to find out is whether or not the wretched female is in fact Lord Charvill’s granddaughter.
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