The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. One can't help being jealous, you know, even of an unworthy object. “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t.
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