"You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. I want you to be my wife. When a mere child she fixed her affections upon a youth named Thames Darrell, whom her father brought up, and who perished, it is supposed, about nine years ago; and she has determined to remain faithful to his memory. And even she was forced to admit to herself that this last resource of hers was a slender reed on which to lean. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face.
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