“By-the-bye,” he said, presently, “your sister was married to old Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t she? I saw the notice in the papers. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them.
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