You’re of age— you’re of age. . “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. "Very well. Ireton," cried Jack, in accents of the most urgent entreaty, "before you take me hence, I implore you—if you would further the ends of justice—search this house. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. .
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