"And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. She remained stonily in the middle of the hallway until the spinsters' door shut them from view … for ever. She had heard the trader utter it many times. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. ’ There was a chuckle in his voice. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. ‘Bête.
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