Friday was not a big dinner night at the Beck house. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. Master Thames Ditton, I'll do your biddin'; and you, Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses. " "Do not go with him, Jack!" shrieked his mother.
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