“Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. 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 can," replied Trenchard. ’ Trodger frowned, and chewed his lip. He did not love Ruth.
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