The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. ‘How happy for you that Valade came to take you away from France,’ he said encouragingly, adding with one of those intimate looks, ‘Happy for me, too. And who is the man you are not allowed to marry? Valade, perhaps?’ ‘Dieu du ciel,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed.
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