At last—I told a story. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity. ’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. His father and his four brothers had perished, leaving him to collect all of their spoils and various kingdoms. Already the warm sun was drawing from the pines their delicious odour. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism.
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