The doorman replied, tipping his cap, “I don’t speak much Italian these days, not since my mother died. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. ‘Now I see that you are mad indeed. Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London.
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