One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. It is really cheap, you know. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. \"Oh. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind.
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