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. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. Wait a little; rest. He laughed suddenly, and released her. “Had the pleasure of dining with you at the ‘Ambassador’s’ one night, before the show, you know—last September I think it was.
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