So Monday, when I see one of the maids come out with a basket, for to go fetch summat for that other Frenchie—the female as I told you about, miss, as is forever coming and going with the nobs. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. “I didn’t blow up the house.
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