But one of these days everything will click back into place. But he reckoned without his host. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Martha had the square look of solid English citizenry, which was not deceiving. 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. A nine days’ wonder is soon forgotten.
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