London had for her the peculiar attraction it has for so many
Italians, and the weeks she spent upon its stones were commonly the
happiest of the year.
The review she took of her letters before breaking the seals first
puzzled her, and then roused certain misgivings in her heart. She
recognised the handwriting of each of the nine addresses, and at
the same time recalled the fact that she was engaged to dine with
every one of the correspondents of this particular morning. Why
should they all be writing to her? She had uneasy forebodings of
postponement, and she hated to have her engagements disturbed; but
it was useless to prolong suspense, so she began by opening the
envelope addressed in the familiar handwriting of Sir John
Oglethorpe, and this was what Sir John had to say--
"My Dear Marchesa, words, whether written or spoken, are powerless
to express my present state of mind. In the first place, our
dinner on Thursday is impossible, and in the second, I have lost
Narcisse and forever.
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