207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. This was irregular. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. 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. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. .
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