‘You said it. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. —'Why, hang every bailiff that sets a foot in your territories, and you're safe,' says I. ‘So it was. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. ‘Come inside at once, child. I'm sure he'll do his best to content you.
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