"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. His eyebrows arched, knotting in the middle. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. One of the coolies held the paper lantern. Besides, she will do no such thing. I was helpless. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out the great shrouded shapes of the furniture. "Don't alarm yourself. "I never went to school. .
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