“I am sure you will marry Nigel sooner or later, and then all your work will be thrown away. I thought that he was dead. From then on he was Ruth's dog. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. Manning would on no account do, though he was tall and dark and handsome and kind, and thirty-five and adequately prosperous, and all that a husband should be.
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