"You'll find her quiet enough to-day, Sir," observed the woman, as they walked along; "but she has been very outrageous latterly. I sha’n’t care a rap if we can never marry. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. One must be on guard. She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. Explain to Sir John our feelings.
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