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. By now the horses would be rested and he might go as swiftly back again. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city. “Lucy, that is so sad. Jack had been touched in the morning, but he was now completely prostrated. ‘If you are not going to visit Charvill today, I’ll escort you back to the convent in Golden Square. “I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely.
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