In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. Down on me luck, I was, and they took me in. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. Her efforts were vain. "Quick.
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