That is what they call these aristocratic refugees, the English. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. ‘Maman?’ ‘How touching,’ said a sarcastic voice behind her in French. 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.
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