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“That’s not. Humph. "Read that. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. To be jeune demoiselle, it is not always convenient. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Through this, his last trial, Jack's spirits never deserted him. I’M shaken.
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