“The fact is—I don’t know why—this takes me by surprise. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. "You think our sex has no feeling, I suppose, Sir," cried Mrs. Quick, now. "For ever!" said the thief-taker, preparing to follow. We'll lather him with mud, shave him with a rusty razor, and drench him with aqua pompaginis. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father.
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