. ’ ‘So you think she is an émigré?’ Lucilla put in before the incensed Roding could respond. ‘And how is it that you have acquired this garb of a religieuse?’ he asked as she fitted the veil over her head. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. The Night-Cellar. She saw his face change, how he regretted. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room.
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