"The name and rank of Thames Darrell's father," said the knight. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. There was a moment’s breathless and disappointed silence. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. One must be on guard.
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