She could not risk going in the door, lest she run into Larry or Cathy drinking a nocturnal glass of milk or Mike raiding the refrigerator for snacks. The rear of the party was brought up by a large, powerfully-built man, with a bluff, honest, but rugged countenance, slashed with many a cut and scar, and stamped with that surly, sturdy, bull-dog-like look, which an Englishman always delights to contemplate, because he conceives it to be characteristic of his countrymen. "Who—who is the Marquis de Chatillon?" "Your adopted son, Thames Darrell," answered Winifred. She remembered possessing it during the Gold Rush. Wood's reception of the widow, who, at that moment, was ushered into the room by Winifred, was not particularly kind and encouraging. “Because you used to be my friend, Lucy, and now I don’t get to see you anymore unless I can get into your house. I've another reason for supposing he'll pay me a visit.
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