He has no imagination, no real generosity. Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields. "Here he is, waterman," exclaimed the benevolent carpenter. "Won't you be persuaded, Joan?" he added, making a similar offer to Mrs. “Can you spare me forty pounds?” she said. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. I was Annabel the rake, ‘Alcide’ of the music halls.
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