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There was a flash and a loud report. You say I know nothing. Then she passed from the room on the arm of General Lord Charvill, chatting animatedly to him. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb. She had fallen asleep. " There was a roaring in her ears like that of angry waters.
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