"You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. You won't have him long. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. In doing so, he had to clamber up the immense heap of bricks and rubbish which now littered the floor, amounting almost to a car-load, and reaching up nearly to the top of the chimney-piece.
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