"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. "Well, if you won't come, I shall help myself, and that's unsociable," pursued the speaker, evidently, from the noise he made, suiting the action to the word. "I call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. But what if she were to marry? He glanced towards the elderly dame and found her watching him, the dimple very much in evidence. .
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