Her father was distinctly irascible, and disposed more than ever to hide away among the petrological things—the study was turned out. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. I learned of your betrothal, gleaned all the information I could simply by eavesdropping. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek.
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