"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. She remembered that she had not gone to bed until two o'clock in the morning. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. Horrible details recurred to her. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand.
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