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. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. “I really owe him something of an apology. . She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted.
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