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Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870

"Barnaby Rudge: a tale of the Riots of 'eighty"

It seemed, from one strong flavour which was uppermost among
the various odours of the place, that it had, at no very distant period,
been used as a storehouse for cheeses; a circumstance which, while it
accounted for the greasy moisture that hung about it, was agreeably
suggestive of rats. It was naturally damp besides, and little trees of
fungus sprung from every mouldering corner.
The proprietor of this charming retreat, and owner of the ragged head
before mentioned--for he wore an old tie-wig as bare and frowzy as a
stunted hearth-broom--had by this time joined them; and stood a little
apart, rubbing his hands, wagging his hoary bristled chin, and smiling
in silence. His eyes were closed; but had they been wide open, it would
have been easy to tell, from the attentive expression of the face he
turned towards them--pale and unwholesome as might be expected in one
of his underground existence--and from a certain anxious raising and
quivering of the lids, that he was blind.
'Even Stagg hath been asleep,' said the long comrade, nodding towards
this person.
'Sound, captain, sound!' cried the blind man; 'what does my noble
captain drink--is it brandy, rum, usquebaugh? Is it soaked gunpowder, or
blazing oil? Give it a name, heart of oak, and we'd get it for you, if
it was wine from a bishop's cellar, or melted gold from King George's
mint.


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