“It was the night you left Paris. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. ’ The lashes fluttered demurely. The latter has, since, been induced to unite herself to Sir Cecil, on terms originating with her brother, and which, however strange and unprecedented, were acquiesced in by the suitor. Answering him was agonizing. Poor young lady! She trembled too, and was unable to give her evidence. “Life—things—I don’t think her prospects now—Hopeful outlook. I may want you.
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