I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. You might even tire of me by then, you know. He looked at her guiltily. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees.
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