Left alone, Jonathan lighted a lamp, and, opening the trap-door, descended the secret stairs. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. “We don’t pretend. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street. Master Thames Ditton, I'll do your biddin'; and you, Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you.
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