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"I'm sorry," she said. 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. “But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question. Annabel had been here then. Marry me. But you could have just as easily lost your womb in the Pestilence, and your life. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. To his astonishment and delight it yielded to the pressure, toppled over the ledge, and sank. It’s time she knew. Sheppard, and neither deserve nor desire your thanks. She was furiously angry.
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