A moistened velvet touch found her tongue. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low. The prisoner was then thrust in by Quilt.
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