In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. You and I. "She wouldn't let me go. " "A penny, if you please, Sir," said the hawker. If ever he requires my services, he shall find I'm not ungrateful. Like a thorough-bred racer, he would sustain twice as much fatigue as a person of heavier mould.
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