” She looked at him with curious eyes. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. 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. I knew where I would go next: Florence.
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