It was Lady Windermere's last reception before Easter, and Bentinck
House was even more crowded than usual. Six Cabinet Ministers had
come on from the Speaker's Levee in their stars and ribands, all
the pretty women wore their smartest dresses, and at the end of the
picture-gallery stood the Princess Sophia of Carlsruhe, a heavy
Tartar-looking lady, with tiny black eyes and wonderful emeralds,
talking bad French at the top of her voice, and laughing
im-moderately at everything that was said to her.
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