Perhaps he had lost his loved ones and was wandering over the world seeking forgetfulness. “I suppose you know I like you tremendously?” he pursued. When any violent outrage was committed,—and such matters were of daily, sometimes hourly, occurrence,—a bell, the rope of which descended into the hall, brought the whole of the turnkeys to their assistance. “You love some one else?” he repeated. Let alone a girl. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. At least, you are one, and I am disguised like one.
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