"At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. I don’t care what else there is in the world. 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. She was pleased and a little flattered by his interest and sympathy. At the head of the cart was placed the coffin. ’ A sudden frown sprang to the fellow’s face. She was shifting, moving back. There isn’t.
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