Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. 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. "My horse has had a fall," replied Jack, assuming to perfection—for he was a capital mimic,—the tones of Quilt Arnold. He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. He panted for a moment with unuttered replies, and then, with a scornful gesture, got up and left the cell.
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