"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. She had never dreamed of such decadence, never imagined that young people could be so happy and healthy. Before I sit down, I have a toast to propose, which I am sure will be received, as it deserves to be, with enthusiasm. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. Priests and princes sought his knowledge of languages and philosophy and wantonly tried to throw themselves into his bed. Peste, she had forgot the sword.
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