I’m not half smart enough for the West End. " "Monster!" cried Winifred. ’ ‘Idiot. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. “My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. "Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. "I call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. ‘You wish to die?’ ‘Not in the least. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t. ” “Then I didn’t waste my time in prison altogether?” “It wasn’t the prison impressed me.
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