Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. "Kidnapped, and sent to France by one uncle, it was my lot to fall into the hands of another,—my father's own brother, the Marshal Gaucher de Chatillon; to whom, and to the Cardinal Dubois, I owed all my good fortune. "There he is!" "I fear not," said her father, with a doubtful shake of the head. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. I waited for her at the back. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. Entering London, he bent his way towards the west-end; and having some knowledge of a secondhand tailor's shop in Rupert Street, proceeded thither, and looked out a handsome suit of mourning, with a sword, cloak, and hat, and demanded the price.
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