She cursed herself for a fool. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. 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. I believe—I believe that I must risk it. “Thank you. “You will have to eat soon,” he said cryptically.
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