She too at once developed an anxious interest in the street outside. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. ‘—without telling her why,’ he finished, ignoring the interjection. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. She was shifting, moving back. Do you recall the night she showed you the face in the locket? Do you remember how she said—'If only my mother had lived'? Did you ever see anything more tender or beautiful?" "I remember. Well, whenever you say, I promise to do away with the mystery. On this elevation a table was now placed, around which sat the turnkeys and their guests, regaling themselves on the fragrant beverage provided by the prisoner. And now you are acting the cuckold, because I do not wish to waste my seed in your barren womb?\" She was too devastated to answer him.
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