“You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. Hobson, the Phys. “Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. I want him immediately, so you can send Frith with my phaeton if you like.
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