“Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears. "But, I half suspect, of your father. By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet.
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