‘Grace à dieu, he breathes still. ” Her heart leaped within her as she caught that phrase. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate. Half an hour's labour, during which he was obliged more than once to pause to regain breath, sufficed to make a hole wide enough to allow a passage for his arm up to the elbow. You are my prisoner, murderer.
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