" "That boy'll never rest till he finds his vay to Bridewell," observed Sharples. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. ‘Adieu, imbecile,’ she threw at him gleefully. "I call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. "It's all over," groaned Wood, "and perhaps it's as well her senses are gone. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. "Ever play one of these machines?" "Yes. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. .
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