It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. ‘I will not, if you will assure me that an imbecile is a better marriage prospect than a starving pig. It was in no sense confessional; it was a state of mind in the patient the doctor had already anticipated. In some cases they were ground almost to powder; in others, driven deeply into the earth, as if discharged from a piece of ordnance. But there was something in his face at once stupid and invincible that told her he would go on forcing himself upon her, that he would esteem speech with her a great point gained. ‘That way. You’re all dependents—all of you. Except he was the only idiot who would stay. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. . All in a moment. His patient was distinctly of a different order of life. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of the populace almost universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!" The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish in promises to their proselytes. Wild of the circumstance.
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