Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. But the current rumblings of internal discontent across the Channel were productive of unease in certain quarters. “Which is Mr. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time.
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