"Is she married?" he asked, after a brief pause. . Forgive my daring. The more her thoughts dwelt upon the subject, the more convinced she was that she could not go to any one for help; she would have to solve the riddle by her own efforts, by some future experience. Wood strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of the flying skiff. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy.
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