“You seem to forget that my sister is—married. For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death. ‘Well, this maid,’ went on Kimble eagerly, ‘and me, we gets to talking, see, and that’s how I knew he were off to this party. Then he took the pulse. Neither did his interest,—which was by no means inconsiderable,—nor his general popularity, procure him the preferment he desired. ‘Leave it, imbecile. . Jack! Mon dieu, but he was unarmed. She came in now with an air of reserved solicitude. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation.
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