He thought,
too, of Count L'Estrange; and the longer he thought, the more he
became convinced that he knew him well, and had met him often.
But where? He racked his brain until, between love, Leoline, and
the count, he got that delicate organ into such a maze of
bewilderment and distraction, that he felt he would be a case of
congestion, shortly, if he did not give it up. That the count's
voice was not the only thing about him assumed, he was positive;
and he mentally called over the muster-roll of his past friends,
who spent half their time at Whitehall, and the other half going
through the streets, making love to the honest citizens' pretty
wives and daughters; but none of them answered to Count
L'Estrange. He could scarcely be a foreigner - he spoke English
with too perfect an accent to be that; and then he knew him, Sir
Norman, as if he had been his brother. In short, there was no
use driving himself insane trying to read so unreadable a riddle;
and inwardly consigning the mysterious count to Old Nick, he
swallowed another glass of sack, and quit thinking about him.
So absorbed had Sir Norman been in his own mournful musings, that
he paid no attention whatever to those around him, and had nearly
forgotten their very presence, when one of them, with aloud cry,
sprang to his feet, and then fell writhing to the floor.
Pages:
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90