‘Unheard of, ain’t it? To tell the truth, I half expected him to leave everything to one of his doxies. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. ‘And nor do I. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid.
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