The Wastrel did not relish this. The skies became brilliant; the dry monsoon was setting in. 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. " With these words, he tore the mantle from Wood's back, and, perceiving the child, endeavoured to seize it.
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