Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. "And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. One small wing lay at the north of the gate, where Giltspur Street Compter now stands; and the Press Yard, which was detached from the main building, was situated at the back of Phoenix Court. He's neighbourly; he has a jingle for every ache and joy I've had.
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