In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. An unhappy little sigh escaped her. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. It's a bad omen to be thrown near that door. “These are the times that would make me glad to live forever, if only they lasted.
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