"You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. ” She shook her head deliberately, hopelessly. Lucy treaded down two steps, stunned. And then her pace slackened.
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