"You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. It must have been impossible to see me through that much rain.
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