His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. She had come to the end of her resources.
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