It was dated from the House of Commons on the previous day. On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. I know what I am talking about. And life is much the same, whether taken in battle, on the couch, or by the road-side. “I am not sure,” Anna answered. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. ’ She glared at Hilary.
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