"Jack!" Her son averted his gaze. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers.
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