"Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. Jonathan shook his head. " "Devil!" muttered Jack, again grasping his pistol. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so.
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