“Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. Rank ingratitude, I call it. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. He has no imagination, no real generosity. Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields. I was in the front row, and I fancied she smiled at me.
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