She trembled; but she did not know why. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. The title had formerly been held by Gianfrancesco’s brother, Alessia, now dead of plague.
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