His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. He listened to the thunder of the fall now mingling with the roar of the blast; and, driven almost frantic by what he heard and saw, he pushed with all his force against the stone. Ann Veronica was not aware of this literary side of her teacher; she had a little tinge of annoyance at Miss Garvice’s advantage. Promise me that you will not disobey the injunctions of her whose memory we must both of us ever revere. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon.
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