In this state, he was laid upon a bench, to sleep off his drunken fit, while his wretched mother, in spite of her passionate supplications and resistance, was, by Blueskin's command, forcibly ejected from the house, and driven out of the Mint. The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned my back upon it. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. I suppose I believe in God.
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