Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. ‘Perhaps she don’t understand English,’ suggested Roding. "On the way to the cutters," said Ah Cum.
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