You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. “You are an impostor. —The general who gives an order for wholesale carnage never sleeps a wink the less soundly for the midnight groans of his victims, and we should deride him as a coward if he did. But I’m going to-day. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. You are wholly in my power. ” “Yes, but you forget; how am I to live?” “Easily.
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