The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. Gerald raised his cockaded hat, and smiled. Through this confusion the carpenter struggled on;—now ascending, now descending the different mountains of rubbish that beset his path, at the imminent peril of his life and limbs, until he arrived in Fleet Street. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. In this moment he could have stamped upon the Wastrel's face, and ended the affair; but all that was clean in him, chivalrous, revolted at the thought. Take my advice. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. It doesn’t matter. " "I cannot repent,—I cannot pray," replied Jack, recovering his hardened demeanour.
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