“David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. The cage at Willesden was, and is—for it is still standing—a small round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof, to which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to vagrants and other disorderly persons, are attached. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames. You went even to our rooms and saw my sister. The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey.
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