" The doctor was in the middle fifties, gray and careworn, but with alert blue eyes and a gentle mouth. He was no match for Brendon. Now, as she stared at the image of her own face, she recalled something Major Alderley had said. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. I’ve wanted you—always. You are afraid of the warmth in your blood.
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