“And we will sail that splendor wide, From day to day together, From isle to isle of happiness Through year’s of God’s own weather. 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 am tired, and I want to be alone. Nevertheless there came a residuum of expostulations.
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