There was a Popish
priest, looking sheepish as he staked his silver, and an Anglican rector,
betting flyers, and as _nonchalant,_ in the blest absence of his flock
and the Baptist minister, as if he were playing at whist with the old
Bishop of Norwich, who played a nightly rubber in my father's day--and a
very bad one. There was a French count, nearly six feet high, to whom the
word "old" would have been unjust: he was antique, and had turned into
bones and leather; but the hair on that dilapidated trunk was its own;
and Zoe preferred him much to the lusty old English beau beside him, with
ivory teeth and ebon locks that cost a pretty penny.
There was a fat, livid Neapolitan betting heavily; there was a creole
lady, with a fine oval face, rather sallow, and eyes and hair as black as
Zoe's own. Indeed, the creole excelled her, by the addition of a little
black fringe upon her upper lip that, prejudice apart, became her very
well. Her front hair was confined by two gold threads a little way apart,
on which were fixed a singular ornament, the vivid eyes of a peacock's
tail set close together all round. It was glorious, regal. The hussy
should have been the Queen of Sheba, receiving Solomon, and showing her
peacock's eyes against his crown-jewels.
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