And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. . I should never have noticed the miniature at all, if it hadn't been for him. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about.
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