Never mind. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. Both, perhaps?’ At that, her eyes darkened with fury. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety.
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