Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. ‘Whither away, mademoiselle?’ he said grimly, ungently grasping her arm above the elbow. She felt very awkward as she stared at 103 the top of his ashen hair. By this time, the door was unlocked, and drawing his sword, Quilt entered the cell.
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