Oh, you cannot escape from it. She pointed across the road. 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. Wait, though. I don’t believe any one could have traced us here. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. That's the job.
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