Then she would have quiet times, in which she would say to herself, “Now look here! Let me think it all out!” For the first time, it seemed to her, she faced the facts of a woman’s position in the world—the meagre realities of such freedom as it permitted her, the almost unavoidable obligation to some individual man under which she must labor for even a foothold in the world. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. Nobody could possibly find him now. Above this revolting spot was the female debtor's ward; below it a gloomy cell, called Tangier; and, lower still, the Stone Hold, a most terrible and noisome dungeon, situated underground, and unvisited by a single ray of daylight. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. Sepulchre's. Her voice recalled him. Get it off your soul.
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