“One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. "When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. She was dressed in a little white frock, with a very long body, and very short sleeves, which looked (from a certain fullness about the hips,) as if it was intended to be worn with a hoop. The shouts, yells, and groans which they uttered, and which were echoed by the concourse in the rear, were perfectly frightful. The young lady—if she had come in here at all—had vanished. Beyond the steps was a pole-chair in readiness.
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