She complained of the crowded cities, dismayed that the people were repopulating them like rabbits. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. I've come to take you back home. She was not quite clear how she should find it, but she felt she would. And then came the vile experience of being forced and borne along the street to the police-station. Thames did not try to cheer her. I believe—I believe that I must risk it. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly.
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