She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull.
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