I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. ‘So now we come to it. She was poor. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. “Maybe someday I can look them up again, just to see how they are doing. " "No. " "That boy'll never rest till he finds his vay to Bridewell," observed Sharples.
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