" "It wasn't the fumes of whisky that toppled him out of his chair. “I can tell you are thinking about it. And she would have to go tomorrow. ’ ‘Never mind the comtesse,’ adjured Prudence. "His lordship desires me to say—ough! ough!" Fresh groans and hisses. I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue.
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