“I am not sure,” Anna answered. He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man. She could not resist enduing persons she met with the noble attributes of the fictional characters. 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.
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