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Updated: May 2, 2025
No, be hanged to it, it was swept off in another way. One night, at the Countess's, there was several of us at supper Mr. Bloundell-Bloundell, the Honourable Deuceace, the Marky de la Tour de Force all tip-top nobs, sir, and the height of fashion, when we had supper, and champagne you may be sure in plenty, and then some of that confounded brandy.
Well, sir, there was a chap that I saw at the hotel and the Palace Royal too, a regular swell fellow, with white kid gloves and a tuft to his chin, Bloundell-Bloundell his name was, as I made acquaintance with somehow, and he asked me to dinner, and took me to Madame the Countess de Foljambe's soirees such a woman, Strong! such an eye! such a hand at the pianner.
Why, there is your friend Bloundell-Bloundell is a professional blackleg, and travels the Continent, where he picks up young gentlemen of fashion and fleeces them. There is Bob O'Toole, with whom I was at school, who drives the Ballynafad mail now, and carries honest Jack Finucane's own correspondence to that city.
"'Bah! says he; 'do not let us have any more jesting. I have your note of hand for three hundred and forty louis. La voia! says he, taking out a paper from his pocket-book. "'And mine for two hundred and ten, says Bloundell-Bloundell, and he pulls out his bit of paper. "I was in such a rage of wonder at this, that I sprang out of bed, and wrapped my dressing-gown round me.
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