Before an hour had elapsed, the concourse was fearfully increased. Jack could hardly be accounted good-looking: Thames, on the contrary, was one of the handsomest boys possible. And what did she do? Not only did she cut his hand in her rage, but she refused to let him help her, and then she ran away from him. It was better even than the hymn-singing. "Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. Her bonnet dropped off and was trampled into the gutter.
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