‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. You have to come over to my 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. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. “You’re great, Lucy! I had no idea you were so great!” John exclaimed.
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