The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. She started forward. It warms me, and lights me, and fills my world with flowers. She thought gleefully of the dress she would get to wear for the Ball (Prom?) and could not wait to tell her foster family about how excited she was. And sometimes he overflowed with a peculiarly malignant wit that played, with devastating effect, upon any topics that had the courage to face it. Wild. “Hey you,” he said affectionately. Books; an inexplicable hunger to be satisfied. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured.
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