CHAPTER XXXI. Diane Vorsack clicked her tongue in a “tsk”. Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. Her eyes were fixed upon the ground, the pink colour coming and going in her cheeks was very delicate and girlish. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are. A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured.
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