But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. If you will have your peg, take it with plain water. 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.
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