Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. The hansom sped through the crowded streets. She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep. I guess they were bad all the time. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon.
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