This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. The last of Jarvis’s harlots must have departed in a hurry, for she had apparently left a roomful of clothes. About nine o'clock, an immense mob collected before the Lodge at Newgate. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. Glancing at each other, they rose from their seats and ventured to address the captain. Sebastian administered bitter tonics to her, fluids she could not taste with her swollen tongue.
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