"Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. But after the first shock came a warm glow of relief. Let me see now. ‘Monsieur Charvill,’ pursued Valade, ‘has left the chateau, and since we have heard from him nothing at all, but for the letters to his daughter from Italy. He embraced her, kissing her cheek, then her neck. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. .
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