'But Evan is not in his own hands--he is in the hands of a lovely young woman, I must tell you.

He belongs to her, and not to us.

You have heard of Rose Jocelyn, the celebrated heiress ?' 'Engaged ?' Mrs.Wishaw whispered aloud.
The Countess, an adept in the lie implied--practised by her, that she might not subject herself to future punishment (in which she was so devout a believer, that she condemned whole hosts to it)--deeply smiled.
'Really!' said Mrs.Wishaw, and was about to inquire why Evan, with these brilliant expectations, could think of trade and tailoring, when the young man, whose forehead had been growing black, jumped up, and quitted them; thus breaking the harmony of the table; and as the Countess had said enough, she turned the conversation to the always welcome theme of low society.

She broached death and corpses; and became extremely interesting, and very sympathetic: the only difference between the ghostly anecdotes she related, and those of the other ladies, being that her ghosts were all of them titled, and walked mostly under the burden of a coronet.

For instance, there was the Portuguese Marquis de Col.