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“I can only be a few years older than you, and I have been married four years. She was perfectly aware that the boy had gotten some sort of bug in his craw over her despite her sloppy, strange appearance. Here the ribs of a thousand pounds beating against the Needles— those dangerous rocks, credulity here floated, to and fro, silks, stuffs, camlets, and velvet, without giving place to each other, according to their dignity; here rolled so many pipes of canary, whose bungholes lying open, were so damaged that the merchant may go hoop for his money," A less picturesque, but more truthful, and, therefore, more melancholy description of the same scene, is furnished by the shrewd and satirical Ned Ward, who informs us, in the "Delectable History of Whittington's College," that "When the prisoners are disposed to recreate themselves with walking, they go up into a spacious room, called the Stone Hall; where, when you see them taking a turn together, it would puzzle one to know which is the gentleman, which the mechanic, and which the beggar, for they are all suited in the same garb of squalid poverty, making a spectacle of more pity than executions; only to be out at the elbows is in fashion here, and a great indecorum not to be threadbare. As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters. Here was an experienced man of the world, her friend, who evidently took a great interest in this supreme topic and was willing to give her the benefit of his experiences! Why should not she be at her ease with him? Why should not she know things? It is hard enough anyhow for a human being to learn, she decided, but it is a dozen times more difficult than it need be because of all this locking of the lips and thoughts. They’re just all men, and no one is safe from scandal. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. Then perhaps I shall send for him if he has not forgotten. Take your half loaf with the others. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest. .
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