“Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. “I don’t believe there is one. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. "I call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. ‘Alors, pig!’ she cried and lunged in quarte. You're in luck to-night, widow.
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