Hurrying down the Haymarket, he was arrested by a crowd who were collected round a street-singer. "It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," thought the carpenter, turning his attention to the child, whose feeble struggles and cries proclaimed that, as yet, life had not been extinguished by the hardships it had undergone. In the next place, she really had some pretensions to beauty. Little more’n a week.
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