There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. Just as he had succeeded in fixing his attention, it was again shaken, and he was almost unnerved by the sight of Mr. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. ’ She edged sideways a little more, her eyes on the pistol in his hand. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace.
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