“Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences.
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