‘Please to sit, monsieur. "Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford. The old man Pottiswick, still grumbling, much to Melusine’s disgust, had gone on his errand to his daughter’s house some two miles distant. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. But Jack was too well versed in the geography of the place to attempt either of them. Finally she fell into reflection.
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