He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. Give him this letter, child, and bid him take it to the Lodge at Newgate without loss of time. Perhaps that is why I lost my ambition. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. The first peg was torture. Her old nurse’s hands returned the pressure.
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