" Thames Darrell was, indeed, a youth of whom a person of far greater worldly consequence than the worthy carpenter might have been justly proud. "I have him!" cried a voice in triumph. He saw that his words were falling upon dull ears. She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. She was chic, distinguished, unusual. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains.
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