I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. I can now give myself to God utterly; no human emotion will ever be shuttling in between. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. "Ye-ah," said O'Higgins, jovially. But here it is China. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred.
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