‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. When the prisoner was brought into this room, he was again questioned; but, continuing contumacious, preparations were made for inflicting the torture.
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