Lucy knocked again. He hadn't gambled or played the horses or hit the booze back there in little old New York…. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. "I am expected, I find," observed Jack, glancing at the well-covered board. Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. But it's French manners, I suppose.
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