" The foregoing conversation, having been conducted throughout in a low tone, and apart, had not reached the ears of Mr. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. I hope we may never find her again. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. "If you don't stop its squalling, I will. Your father…. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Poor Ben was not so fortunate.
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