Explore "A Secret Service" by William Le Queux on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
A chaos of terrible recollections bewilders me. I have the sense of having trodden a stony highway during long years, but have now taken my last step for the present in the blood-spotted pathway to Revolution.
The windows at the rear of the Château de Trélatête, a quaint old-world place, near the high road from St. Germain to Paris, look out upon a wide, well-kept lawn, flanked by dark yew hedges, and backed by the winding Seine, on the opposite bank of which a sparsely timbered slope leads up to a small farm. Zigzag up this slope runs a path-probably it has so run for centuries, for at the foot of it is a ford across a small stream-which in spring is almost invisible, but in autumn is brown and rutty.