There was none. He was also, had she known it, more than a little insincere. It reverberated in the silence. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. She finished the olive and looked up. In consequence of the encouragement thus offered to dishonesty, and the security afforded to crime, this quarter of the Borough of Southwark was accounted (at the period of our narrative) the grand receptacle of the superfluous villainy of the metropolis. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. Get the pole out of your ass.
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