With a cry of distress, she dropped the pistol and flew after him, racing past him to the door. . Had he had the child to think of, he might have recovered from his grief at Mary’s death. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. Later on—well then the time may come. And this is not France, you understand. “Take my advice,” he said hoarsely.
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