"You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. I've seen him often do it. Ain't he, Madam?'" "He is, indeed," replied the widow, fervently; "more—much more than that. But she wished she could put the thing she had done in some way to them so that it would not hurt them so much as the truth would certainly do. No good at all.
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