It'll be advertised to-morrow. I quickly ingratiated myself to Gianfrancesco, playing on his insecurities, drawing from his need for more and more power. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. The pavement had been hastily picked up, and heaped across the end of the street, upon which planks, barrels, and other barricades, were laid. Just then—I was nervous. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. Oh, you must believe me.
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