‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. One went in for painting, kept straight and married old Ferringhall a week or so ago—the Lord help her. Her head ached with a hollow pain. ‘You make a game with me, I think. "How long will he be laid up?" "Three or four weeks, if he doesn't peg out during the night. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. The fates are never so kind to me. My friend, I am only grieved that you of all others should have been so deceived.
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