“You have them both,” Anna answered. She was about to rush to his side, when she saw his clenched hands rise and fall upon the sand repeatedly. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. The prison was two stories high, with a flat roof surmounted by a gilt vane fashioned like a key; and, possessing considerable internal accommodation, it had, in its day, lodged some thousands of disorderly personages. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked.
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