From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Oh, cuss it!” “Eh?” “He said I would. ‘How the deuce did she get out without me seeing her?’ ‘Took advantage of the distraction, cunning little devil,’ Gerald snapped, racing down the corridor. So many distresses— so many joys coming at the same time are too much for me. The shouts of indignation—the frightful yells now raised baffle description.
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