From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. "You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a seat. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Her disapproval was obvious enough.
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