"You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. Her hair was the one part of her that did not exude the air of wealth. As for me, I look twice at it. No, not one little bit. Do you know how late it is?” She nodded. Sheppard found it; and, as no one opposed her, she at once took up her abode there; nor was she long in discovering that the dreaded sounds proceeded from the nocturnal gambols of a legion of rats. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright. ‘I am entirely English.
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