"I call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. ‘Anyhow, never mind that now. " "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood. ” “Every one hasn’t the Gift. "A capital instrument for my purpose," thought Jack, shouldering it, "and worth all the trouble I have had in procuring it.
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