Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens

From these cities they would go on again, by the roads of vines and olives, through squalid villages, where there was not a hovel without a gap in its filthy walls, not a window with a whole inch of glass or paper; where there seemed to be nothing to support life, nothing to eat, nothing to make, nothing to grow, nothing to hope, nothing to do but die. ~ Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens

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Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens

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