"Not my king's," returned Wood. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection. 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. Her clock had stopped—stopped at the very hour on which she had quitted the Mint! She had not the heart to wind it up again. Things happen to women—proper women—and all they have to do is to take them well.
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