She looked about, watching a massive green storm cloud building in the west. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. He'll mend, I hope. I made her my unwilling confederate. ‘That’s just it. ‘Only you made me lose my temper, and—’ ‘I made you do so? Pah!’ Gerald at last succeeded in ripping the handkerchief from her grasp, and swiftly held it to her neck, oblivious to her now bloodied fingers clawing at his hand. The pair then descended Saffron-hill, threaded Field-lane, and, entering Holborn, passed over the little bridge which then crossed the muddy waters of Fleet-ditch, mounted Snow-hill, and soon drew in the bridle before Jonathan Wild's door. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind. I do not think that I have the Bohemian spirit at all.
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