He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard.
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