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. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. Mind, I am anticipating events. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. God, Lucy, that’s the stuff people wear to Phys.
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