"Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. His chin was angular and his lips were 16 small, his mouth tiny and refined. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. A cold shiver came over her. ” She raked into the fire with the poker. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against.
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