She stood face to face with him, and his voice cut across her speech and made her stop abruptly. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. ” “Perhaps not in a general way,” he answered calmly. ‘And I suppose I shall be obliged to endure another nonsensical tale about your husband. But I liked to say it. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion.
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