"Forgive me—oh, forgive me!" "Forgive you—bless you!" she gasped. ‘But I have told you. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane, or one of the Squares. She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation. The stranger started at the touch, and spoke. With the extra seventy-five pounds she had put after birthing her final son, Steven, her knees weren’t in good shape to be running up and down stairs all day. By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown.
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