Lord Charvill champed upon an invisible bit for a moment or two, closing the gap between himself and the girl, and muttering the name to himself in an overwrought sort of way. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. 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. She had been carrying them, he assumed, but then again the school had some particularly talented kids among the usual ruffians.
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