"I ought to tell you that Mr. It's all your fault, you shaking coward! and, but that I feel sure you'll swing for your carelessness, I'd throw you into the well, too. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. 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. "I told you that before," rejoined Wood, testily. Only the next of kin. Sebastian, too, seemed to be immune, even though cats, dogs, and beasts of the suffered just as the humans did: blackening and dying, their eyes rolling, their bodies covered with bald buboes. Melusine made no reply. She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire.
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