Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. Bowing to the stranger, the woollen-draper very politely requested to know his business.
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