But a man is a mixed creature. "Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. The carpet was a quiet drugget and not excessively worn, and the bed in the corner was covered by a white quilt. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. "Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard. Go for it. “Why not? They tell me that London is impossible till after ten, and I want my first impressions to be favourable.
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