Quotation
The seeds may be planted, my dear, but it's not yet harvest-time.'
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Mary hurried on, past the night-soil men, who wheeled their foetid barrows with blank faces. Maybe, she thought, in time you grew accustomed to your toil, whatever it might be.
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You can't let the fact that someone wants you dead put you off your tea, lass.
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howl—every Londoner knew that life need last no longer than you could bear it.
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All aboard for Hounslow, Beaconsfield, Burford, Northleach, Oxford, Cheltenham, Gloucester, Monmouth.'
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Always before she'd been within reach of a source of heat: a tavern hearth, a cup of hot negus, a handful of roast chestnuts even. But this wagon inched across the country as naked and unprotected as a cow.