“Hey,” he said, his eyes slowly adjusting to the soft blackness. "I have not many days,—perhaps, not many hours to live. Charvill’s command of French was enough to tell him that, for its entire content was devoted to commending Nicholas Charvill’s fourteen year old daughter into the care of the Abbess. It was now whitening, hissing, and seething like an enormous cauldron. We shall never have an heir, you and I! My family is crumbling; all of my brothers are dead. The little pucker in her brows became more perceptible.
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