These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me. She sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug under the bookcase that supported the pig’s skull, and looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica’s face, and let herself go. After the dance, they went to a party. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon.
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