Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. His perseverance was amply rewarded. The black, meantime, began to ply his hammer, and speedily unriveted the chains. I have never in my life been so much puzzled by any one as by your sister. One small wing lay at the north of the gate, where Giltspur Street Compter now stands; and the Press Yard, which was detached from the main building, was situated at the back of Phoenix Court.
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