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. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. Poor Ruth: for a father, a madman; for a husband—a thief! Spurlock rocked his body slightly. “Who?” She asked.
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