"I hear you plotting with your wicked associates," cried Mrs. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. The only thing they don’t fight over is the addition. She hated living like that. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son.
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