Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. “How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. ‘Comment? What do you say?’ Gerald looked down into her face, and found himself touched by the uncertainty he saw there. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. ‘But a spy I am not.
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