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. "I'm afraid I must decline to tell you. “Can you take any from me?” “No, I won’t do that. If I were to marry you now I should feel a dependent being all my life—a sort of parasitical creature without blood or muscle. "It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in Saint Giles's round-house.
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