“Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. . She was going to him soon and certainly, going to his strong, embracing arms. Everything was going to hell. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. I've got to know why. 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. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction.
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