"Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. There was something fatalistic about the letter H. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes. E. Supper was over.
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