He embraced her, kissing her cheek, then her neck. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. Applying his ear to the keyhole, Jack listened, but could detect no sound. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. Presently.
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