"Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. "Kidnapped, and sent to France by one uncle, it was my lot to fall into the hands of another,—my father's own brother, the Marshal Gaucher de Chatillon; to whom, and to the Cardinal Dubois, I owed all my good fortune. She’s obsessed with him, you know, totally obsessed. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. ‘Oh, my God, Melusine, what have I done?’ Melusine shook her head. " "Then it was not a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation.
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