White’s boarding-house in Russell Square. He glanced out of the window, looked back at the major and grasped the handle of the door. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. "Rowland," she said, in a faint voice, "I have not many minutes to live.
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