The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. Tell Bess to slip out, and I'll put on her cloak and hood. She was very pretty. The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury. "Follow me, Thames," cried Jack, dropping into the chasm. The twins were a hard delivery, a C-Section.
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