The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. “There’s the classes,” said Constance, the well-informed. Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields. It was his particular hobby, and the leisure he had to apply to it had given him a remarkable appraising eye. “She wasn’t sane, my wife.
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