"You poor child!" said Prudence. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. I can't give you my hand; but you may take it. You will have to tell me.
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