On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies. "I'll tell you," replied Jack, with forced calmness. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating.
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