There is Lady Arlingford’s reception to-night, ten till twelve, and the Hatton House ball, marked with a cross, sir, important. There all the loose characters thronged, assignations were openly made, and the spectators diverted themselves with the vagaries of its miserable inhabitants. They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache.
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