Happy Thanksgiving. ’ Lady Bicknacre, resplendent in purple satin, and basking in her triumphantly full rooms—for it was obvious that her patronage of the refugees had set a quickly to be followed fashion—was all sorrow and sympathy when Gerald spoke of them. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. Light the lantern. The blow had brought him back to the realm of sober thought. Don't you remember? There were four of us, and we went touring in the city.
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