"Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. "Jack!" she cried, raising her head. ‘Come, mademoiselle. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky.
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