The Night-Cellar XVIII. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. "Flying fish. You're welcome to it. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. But I tell you in return, I shall take no pains to hide myself.
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