The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. 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. Nothing at all. ‘If you are not going to visit Charvill today, I’ll escort you back to the convent in Golden Square.
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