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. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. \"How's it going, Lucy?\" She turned. And she—’ ‘She!’ interrupted the young lady crossly.
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