‘But if there is one, how in the world did this mystery lady of yours know of it?’ ‘That, Lucy, is precisely the point that has been exercising my mind,’ Gerald said, turning his eyes once more to the group of French exiles in the alcove. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her.
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