‘Ah, grandpére. John moved closer to her, getting up from his roost by one bench, he joined her at the bench where she sat. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. "Here's one of the thieves, Sir Rowland!" cried the attendant. At the same moment a martial flourish, proceeding from cow's horns, tin canisters filled with stones, bladders and cat-gut, with other sprightly, instruments, was struck up, and, enlivened by this harmonious accompaniment, the troop reached its destination in the best possible spirits for an encounter. Of course, why not? She would be honest, anyhow! She turned her eyes to Manning. ‘So it was.
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