And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. She had found the mausoleum underneath a broken monument. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. Arrived there, the porter thundered at the massive door of the Lodge, which was instantly opened—Shotbolt's note having been received just before. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random.
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