"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate.
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