"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. " "You're fine, too. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. But," said the fellow, with a laugh, "he soon contrived to make his way out on it, though.
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