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272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. "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. “Who can tell?” she said. Indeed, if he had been ignorant of it, the sound of voices which he could faintly distinguish, would have served as a caution to him. I loathe this room. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters.
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