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. Come. "Where to, master?" asked Ben, touching his woollen cap. " "And perish upon the gibbet," rejoined Jonathan contemptuously. They say it hasn't been opened for eight years—but I won't be eight years in getting out of it.
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