Wood, in a whisper, as he filled a rummer to the brim, not to forget the health of the Chevalier de Saint George—a proposition to which the lady immediately responded by drinking the toast aloud. It was not that the servants could not, they simply preferred to. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. “A sex of blacklegging clients. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly.
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