“I murdered them, John. The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless on the straw. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. ‘Then it is that you will have pity? Here we have come, we poor, for aid.
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