"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. “I knew Miss Pellissier in Paris at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ and I know her now, but I am convinced that there is some mystery in connexion with her change of life. Something in his tone pinched her heart. The next morning she went out with her post-office savings bank-book, and telegraphed for a warrant to draw out all the money she had in the world. Why should she trouble herself over that young fool, who was nothing to her; who, when he eventually sobered up, would not be able to recognize her, or if he did, as something phantasmagorical? Perhaps he should not apply the term "fool"; "unfortunate" might be the more accurate application. Every moment or two he bent over his patient. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in.
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