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a card-case without the top; an empty purse; a watch-guard
snapped asunder; a handful of silver, mingled with fragments of
half-smoked cigars, and their stale and crumbled ashes;--these,
and many other tokens of riot and disorder, hinted very intelligibly
at the nature of last night’s gentlemanly frolics.

Lord Frederick Verisopht was the first to speak. Dropping his
slippered foot on the ground, and, yawning heavily, he struggled
into a sitting posture, and turned his dull languid eyes towards his
friend, to whom he called in a drowsy voice.

‘Hallo!’ replied Sir Mulberry, turning round.
‘Are we going to lie here all da-a-y?’ said the lord.
‘I don’t know that we’re fit for anything else,’ replied Sir
Mulberry; ‘yet awhile, at least. I haven’t a grain of life in me this

‘Life!’ cried Lord Verisopht. ‘I feel as if there would be nothing
so snug and comfortable as to die at once.’

‘Then why don’t you die?’ said Sir Mulberry.
With which inquiry he turned his face away, and seemed to
occupy himself in an attempt to fall asleep.

His hopeful fiend and pupil drew a chair to the breakfast-table,
and essayed to eat; but, finding that impossible, lounged to the
window, then loitered up and down the room with his hand to his
fevered head, and finally threw himself again on his sofa, and
roused his friend once more.

‘What the devil’s the matter?’ groaned Sir Mulberry, sitting
upright on the couch.

Although Sir Mulberry said this with sufficient ill-humour, he
did not seem to feel himself quite at liberty to remain silent; for,
after stretching himself very often, and declaring with a shiver

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