The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. “I don’t know how to prove myself to you, John. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. “We will do Paris like the tourists, and thank God here comes dinner.
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