"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. He passed his arm under that of the constable, and drew him aside. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Brendon.
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