Old as I am--eighty-two or eighty-three (I forget which) in June--I envy you with all my heart.

Luck has stood to you, my boy; and if a French sabre or a bayonet finish you now, you've at least had a splendid burst of it.

I was right in my opinion of you, and Godfrey himself owns it now,--a lawyer, indeed! Bad luck to them! we've had enough of lawyers.

There's old Hennesy,--honest Jack, as they used to call him,--that your uncle trusted for the last forty years, has raised eighteen thousand pounds on the title-deeds, and gone off to America.

The old scoundrel! But it's no use talking; the blow is a sore one to Godfrey, and the gout more troublesome than ever.