She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. ‘But it is entirely myself,’ she exclaimed aloud. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred.
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