If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. He found a coach at the door, with the blinds carefully drawn up, and ascertained from a tall, ill-looking, though tawdrily-dressed fellow, who held his horse by the bridle, and whom he addressed as Quilt Arnold, that the two boys were safe inside, in the custody of Abraham Mendez, the dwarfish Jew. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must. ‘You don’t know him. I shouldn't talk like that.
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