"And me," added Mrs. "When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. He's on the ragged edge. By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. ” Her elation teetered in mid-air for a second, then began to flutter down around her like a badly-built house of cards.
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