Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them. 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. Anna comes to London. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. Practically all. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience.
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