" "Then it was not a dream!" ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. 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. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. "But, I say, that girl is a queer one.
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