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Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. “You will go and see her,” he begged. The place was pockmarked with window-like holes everywhere—people were always 138 falling into them and breaking bones--it was for these lookouts why she had chosen it. Gerald doubted there would be many eager suitors, even assuming the comtesse was keen to marry off her daughter to a foreign protestant. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. Sheppard.
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