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Politely though he had contrived his departure, the Commandant left Mrs. Fossell's whist-party to something like dismay. A passing indisposition no excuse could be more reasonable. Still, nothing of the kind had ever interrupted these gatherings within Mrs. Fossell's recollection, and she could not help taking a serious view of it. "A passing indisposition," was Mr.
"Why, Fossell's. Good Lord! didn't you know?" "My dear Sir Cæsar " Mr. Fossel stepped forward solicitously. "Eh? So it is.... Good evening, Mr. Fossell! That picture of the Waterloo Banquet seemed familiar, somehow." The Lord Proprietor nodded towards a framed engraving on the wall. "Yes, to be sure and Landseer's 'Twa Dogs. But this is worse than the Arabian Nights!
Miss Gabriel put up both hands they were encased in mittens, and the mittens decorated with steel beads as if to close her ears. "We must be thankful, indeed," she began, and paused in dismay as the floor of Mrs. Fossell's drawing-room trembled under her, and at the same moment the window sashes rattled violently throughout the house. "Good Heavens!" "What was that?"
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