‘You do not think it is enough English. He continued to do this for the rest of the evening intermittently, in and out, among other topics. I am tired, and I want to be alone. The Night-Cellar XVIII. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. Yet I fancy that we who have been poor ourselves must be the best judges of the needs of the people.
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