” He did not look at her. “No. "'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. 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. Despite him, it was the beauty that she had inherited from her mother they had used to gain the betrothal, and it had not been easy. ‘She wouldn’t tell me. “Morning, Mom. .
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