The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. The entrance of the house 85 was grand, and upon entering she was immediately greeted by John’s mother, a tall, thin woman quite a few years older than Cathy Beck. "It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in Saint Giles's round-house. “John,” she declared, “I must eat or die.
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