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When the last man had refreshed himself, the Count stepped forward and begged a flagon full that he might drink in such good company, and it seemed that Brunhilda had anticipated such a request, for she turned to one of her women and held out her hand, receiving a huge silver goblet marvellously engraved that had belonged to her forefathers, and plenishing it, she gave it to the Count, who, holding it aloft, cried, "The Lady of Bernstein," whereupon there arose such a shout that the troubled Archbishop heard it in his distant tent.
And what does my gentleman do but write privately to my brother in America, lauding me and my wife as the most admirable of human beings, and call upon Madame de Bernstein, who never told me of his visit indeed, but who, I perceived, about this time treated us with singular respect and gentleness, that surprised me in one whom I could not but consider as selfish and worldly.
Warrington is in some trouble now, madam," continues the chaplain, steadily looking at Lady Maria. "What, again?" shrieks the lady. "Hush! Your ladyship's dear invalid!" whispers the chaplain again pointing towards Madame Bernstein. "Do you think your cousin has any partiality for any any member of Mr. Lambert's family? for example, Miss Lambert?"
It is Marianne Meier." "What! Marianne Meier?" asked Baron Arnstein. "The celebrated beauty whom Goethe has loved for whom the Swedish ambassador at Berlin, Baron Bernstein, has entertained so glowing a passion, and suffered so much and who is now the mistress of the Austrian minister, the Prince von Reuss?" "Hush, for Heaven's sake, hush!" whispered Fanny. "She is coming toward us."
"With whom am I to hold converse?" began the Archbishop, "I am here at the behest of the Bernstein call to parley, but I see none, of that name on the wall to greet me."
"It is not Betty it is I! Good morning, dear aunt! I hope you slept well?" cries a voice which made old Bernstein start on her pillow. It was the voice of Lady Maria, who drew the curtains aside, and dropped her aunt a low curtsey. Lady Maria looked very pretty, rosy, and happy.
But we can have clear consciences, and that is the main point!" And herewith the chaplain threw his handsome eyes upward, and tried to look as if his conscience was as white as the ceiling. "Has there been anything very wrong, then, about my Aunt Bernstein?" continued Harry, remembering how at home his mother had never spoken of the Baroness.
He praised its merits fluently and cheerfully. When he left he locked the door of the office behind him and handed the key to one of the clerks. "I've got a kinda notion Mr. Bernstein wants to get out of his office. He's actin' sort o' restless, seems like." Restless was hardly the word. He was banging on the door like a wild man. "Police! Murder! Help!" he shouted in a high falsetto.
She sold his secrets to my papa, who paid her for them; and being nowise particular in her love for the Stuarts, came over to the august Hanoverian house at present reigning over us. 'Will Horace Walpole's tongue never stop scandal? says your wife over your shoulder. I kiss your ladyship's hand. I am dumb. The Bernstein is a model of virtue.
All he meant was that the suit was good enough to be married in, or for that matter to be buried in. "Or to be born anew in when Billy Sunday comes to town and I hit the sawdust trail," suggested the purchaser. Mr. Bernstein caressed it again. "One swell piece of goods," he told himself softly, almost with tears in his eyes. "All wool, you say?" asked Clay, feeling the texture.
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