"Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. I’m that shamed to confess it, miss, but it were then I thought of Martha. And rather unscrupulous.
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