‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. I'm having some unexpected guests. I loathe this room. My only excuse is that I missed my way here, and I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. Emerging from this aperture, he was about to descend, when he was alarmed by hearing the tramp of horses' feet swiftly approaching, and had only time to hide himself behind one of the largest signboards before alluded to when two horsemen rode up. The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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