"Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. The evenings were dulcet and soft. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience.
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