‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. He was waiting in the outer hall as she tiptoed in. With this view, he suffered him to pass on. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. ‘You know perfectly well that she is the daughter of the Comtesse de St Erme. Everything was done in the most legal and imposing way, but the whole thing was a fraud. It's almost worth while being sent to prison to have the pleasure of escaping.
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