Curiosity to see what a sing-song girl was like took possession of Ruth's thoughts. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. Maggot. Leastways, not on your own. Besides—there is Sir John. Thank you for the books. . To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. She did not therefore reveal to him that he had guaged her with accuracy. By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. 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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