“And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. 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. And, whatever you may think, I assure you, Jack's a downright goodnatured fellow. They’re all wonderful cooks. ‘That was one of my own clever stories.
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