Clotilde rushed out of the house, carrying her boy and tugging her girl by the ear. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. “You are late,” she murmured. Aided by an individual, who was acquainted with a secret outlet from the tenement, Darrell escaped. "The ban-dogs!" thundered a tall man, whose stature and former avocations had procured him the nickname of "The long drover of the Borough market. Meanwhile, the mob outside had prodigiously increased, and had begun to exhibit some disposition to riot.
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