Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. He hated himself a little for it. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here. “Mean as an old mule, too. That’s where you go wrong.
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