She gloried in it: he needed her. She could not help herself. . ’ Gerald was relieved to find the girl did not attempt to run away, but meekly allowed him to usher her into the spacious and comfortable library which was his habitual haunt when at home. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. “Indeed,” she said, “it was very fortunate that I should have met you this afternoon. . . ” He demanded as she opened her eyes and stopped moaning.
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