She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. To-night we leave for Marseilles. Having heard from Thames that you were better, and that your sole anxiety was about me, I came to give you the first intelligence of my escape.
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