Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. "And now, widow," he continued, "attend to the next verse, for it consarns a friend o' yours. The one I have is a duplicate. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. He embraced her, kissing her cheek, then her neck.
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