It doesn’t matter. "Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. "Begone, wretch!" cried the mother, stung beyond endurance by his taunts; "or I will drive you hence with my curses. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. She was on the rim of civilization, entering, as Spurlock was on the rim, preparing to make his exit. You couldn’t help it. You’re a good friend. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird.
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