Old Colonel
Carlisle is dead, and has left his whole fortune, some say half a
million, to the oddest person, merely because she had the reputation
of being his daughter. Quite an odd person, you understand me: Mrs.
Montfort. St. Maurice says you know her; but we must not talk of these
things now. Well, Squib is going to be married to her. He says that he
knows all his old friends will cut him when they are married, and so he
is determined to give them an excuse. I understand she is a fine woman.
He talks of living at Rome and Florence for a year or two.
'Lord Darrell is about to marry Harriet Wrekin; and between ourselves
(but don't let this go any further at present) I have very little doubt
that young Pococurante will shortly be united to Isabel. Connected as we
are with the Shropshires, these excellent alliances are gratifying.
'I see very little of Lucius Grafton. He seems ill.
I understand, for certain, that her Ladyship opposes the divorce. _On
dit_, she has got hold of some letters, through the treachery of her
soubrette, whom he supposed quite his creature, and that your friend
is rather taken in.
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