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 of a woman. No! 'tis not all over. There is yet an intellectual rack few dream of, far, far more terrific than the most exquisite contrivances of Parysatis.—Madeleine," said he to a female attendant that passed, "is your mistress at home?"

"She is, Sir."

"'Tis well," said Vivian, and he sprang up stairs.

"Health to the lady of our love!" said Vivian Grey, as he entered the elegant boudoir of Mrs. Felix Lorraine. "In spite of the easterly wind, which has spoiled my beauty for the season, I could not refrain from enquiring after your prosperity, before I went to the Marquess. Have you heard the news?"

"News! no; what news?"

"'Tis a sad tale," said Vivian, with a melancholy voice.

"Oh! then, pray don't tell it me. I'm in no humour for sorrow to-day. Come! a