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. But, feeling secure of vengeance, he determined to abide his time. ‘Leonardo again,’ he growled. He could not tell whether she was English or American. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals.
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