They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. Wood, with a candle in his hand, which Jack instantly blew out, and darted down stairs. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. ‘What a catalogue. Even if you pretend sometimes to be without sense.
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