192 Her skirt had ridden almost to her hips. 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. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. “What are you doing?” he asked.
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