” “You do not flatter me,” she laughed. Still no sound. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. "Adorable girl!" he cried, in the most impassioned tone, and with the most impassioned look he could command.
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