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Chapter 7. The Child of the Marshalsea

           

           ‘Oh!Don’tsayyouareaprisoner,Tip!Don’t,don’t!’

           ‘Well,Idon’twanttosayit,’hereturnedinareluctanttone;‘butifyoucan’tunderstandmewithoutmysayingit,whatamItodo?Iaminforfortypoundodd.’

           Forthefirsttimeinallthoseyears,shesunkunderhercares.Shecried,withherclaspedhandsliftedaboveherhead,thatitwouldkilltheirfatherifheeverknewit;andfelldownatTip’sgracelessfeet.

           ItwaseasierforTiptobringhertohersensesthanforhertobringhimtounderstandthattheFatheroftheMarshalseawouldbebesidehimselfifheknewthetruth.ThethingwasincomprehensibletoTip,andaltogetherafancifulnotion.Heyieldedtoitinthatlightonly,whenhesubmittedtoherentreaties,backedbythoseofhisuncleandsister.Therewasnowantofprecedentforhisreturn;itwasaccountedfortothefatherintheusualway;andthecollegians,withabettercomprehensionofthepiousfraudthanTip,supporteditloyally.

           Thiswasthelife,andthisthehistory,ofthechildoftheMarshalseaattwenty-two.Withastillsurvivingattachmenttotheonemiserableyardandblockofhousesasherbirthplaceandhome,shepassedtoandfroinitshrinkinglynow,withawomanlyconsciousnessthatshewaspointedouttoeveryone.Sinceshehadbeguntoworkbeyondthewalls,shehadfounditnecessarytoconcealwhereshelived,andtocomeandgoassecretlyasshecould,betweenthefreecityandtheirongates,outsideofwhichshehadneversleptinherlife

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