" "Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English. She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. The kind of man who isn’t content with his science, and writes articles in the monthly reviews. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. This happened after he ate. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. Then he had gone away. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him.
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