Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery. Of all crafts,—and it was the only craft his poor father, who, to do him justice, was one of the best workmen that ever handled a saw or drove a nail, could never understand,—of all crafts, I say, to be an honest man is the master-craft. I'm sorry. Perhaps you'll call that charity: I call it defeating the ends of justice. Here the prisoners took exercise; and a quaint, but striking picture has been left of their appearance when so engaged, by the author of the English Rogue. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. Who are they?" Mr. “Annabel?” he exclaimed.
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