"
"Any mortal thing alive, sir," said one of those horsey-looking men who
are to be found in all hunting-fields, who wear old brown breeches, old
black coats, old hunting-caps, who ride screws, and never get thrown out.
"You know him, do you?" said Frank.
"I know him. I didn't know as Muster MacFarlane owned him. No more he
don't," said the horsey man, turning aside to one of his friends. "That's
Nappie's horse, from Jamaica Street."
"Not possible," said the friend.
"You'll tell me I don't know my own horse next."
"I don't believe you ever owned one," said the friend.
Lizzie was in truth delighted to have her cousin beside her. He had, at
any rate, forgiven what she had said to him at his last visit, or he would
not have been there. And then, too, there was a feeling of reality in her
connection with him, which was sadly wanting to her, unreal as she was
herself, in her acquaintance with the other people around her. And on this
occasion three or four people spoke or bowed to her, who had only stared
at her before; and the huntsman took off his cap, and hoped that he would
do something better for her than on the previous Monday.
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