The fire still burned brightly. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. I tell you what, Thames," he added, flinging himself carelessly into a chair, "I'd give my right hand,—and that's no light offer for a carpenter's 'prentice,—if that little minx were half as fond of me as she is of you. The advanced guard had endeavoured to disperse the mob in Field Lane, but were not prepared to meet with the resistance they encountered. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. Your Mom says to come downstairs for dessert.
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