The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. And some were adorned with engravings that struck her as being more vulgar and undesirable than anything she had ever seen in her life.
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