They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. 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 hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue.
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