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"I call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. “But, dear, think! He is your father. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. I suppose that’s the gist of the whole thing. Life is so good. I don’t care. Wood's ear, whispered, "secret agents from France—you understand—friends to the cause—hem!" "I see,—persons of rank!" Mr. He sees men all defiled by coarse thoughts, coarse ways of living cruelties. You've caught the colour and the life. \"Great!\" I'll drive you.
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