She and Courtlaw drove homewards together. She loves you too well for that. He resolved to judge for himself. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. "Well, how goes it?" he asked. From the first of these alighted Thames, or, as he must now be styled, the Marquis de Chatillon.
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