Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. He glanced out of the window, looked back at the major and grasped the handle of the door. Mr Jarvis’s sister, that was. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. "And the Marchioness is your daughter," added Thames.
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