There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. 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. Ireton, was appointed to the office, stood with a hammer in one hand, and a punch in the other, near the great stone block, ready to fulfil his duty. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way.
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