Jack had got into one of the pens at the north side of the chapel. Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. The strong potation he had taken, combined with fatigue and anxiety he had previously undergone, made him oversleep himself, and when he awoke it was just beginning to grow light. 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. “To the best of my belief,” she said, with quiet dignity, “I have never seen either of you before in my life.
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