‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. Martha had not been pleased to find her spare one borrowed for that expedition when the major had found her outside the ballroom. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street.
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