He classified her as he seated himself. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. Her eyes were dilated— fixed in a horrified stare at the parting in the curtains which hung before the window. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles's. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. "And had you been the worst scoundrel unhung, I'd have seen to it that you had the same care, the same chance. He'd have some fun with that Chinaman before the morning was out. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. .
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