He broke his arms in two places and several bones in his right hand. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. Stanley, whose family had been by any reckoning inconsiderable—to use the kindliest term. That is the dreadful truth. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. He would go there. Stir a foot, and I strike.
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