Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. Young and old were dressed in their gayest apparel; and it was evident from the smiles that lighted up every countenance, from the roguish looks of the younger swains, and the demure expression of several pretty rustic maidens, that a ceremony, which never fails to interest all classes,—a wedding,—was about to take place. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. Neither Charvill nor his heir know anything of your presence in England. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again.
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