"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. More,’ he said, ‘but I’m told it’s the most amusing thing in London at the present time. Near the body, which, it will be surmised, was that of Abraham Mendez, two ruffianly personages were seated, quietly smoking, and bestowing no sort of attention upon the new-comers. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. “A Socialist of the order of John Ruskin. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her.
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