His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. ‘And so also have I. Afraid there'll be a love-affair. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. It is necessary. Cocked hats and buckled swords spoke of rank. You need not be afraid.
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