Turning off again on the left, down Seacoal Lane, they arrived at the mouth of a dark, narrow alley, into which they plunged; and, at the farther extremity found a small yard, overlooked by the blank walls of a large gloomy habitation. Plote was sleeping or deaf. The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights. But beyond "amicable agreement in which mutual concessions are made," the word "compromise" was as blank as the Canton wall at night. ‘I wish you joy of the wench.
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