" Trenchard took up a pen. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Here's the——" "Let me have one," cried a servant maid, running across the street, and in her haste forgetting to shut the door,—"here's the money. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. His figure was uncommonly slim even for his age, which could not be more than thirteen; and the looseness of his garb made him appear thinner than he was in reality. Until at last I persuaded him to go to bed.
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