All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. "Took a great fancy to you. I hate what I am. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. Hist!’ he added, as he turned his head and noticed Alderley’s glance. So I asks the maid a few questions like, and it seems it ain’t Mister Charvill they’re going to visit again, but General Charvill. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew. CHAPTER IV.
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