She was thinking fast now, all her senses on the alert. Thames Darrell. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. There was a recurrence of fever, but nothing alarming. Leonardo had told her it would happen, and warned her to make use of it. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. “Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up.
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