Her aunt went off at a tangent. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. " "So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—"so she was. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so. She might be able to go on with biology, possibly even work upon the same questions that he dealt with.
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