Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. 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. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin.
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