"I say," retorted Edgeworth Bess, with a very unfeminine imprecation, "I shan't stand any more of that nonsense. "That's a good story, lad. After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames addressed him. ‘Don’t tell me. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. Henceforth, I utterly throw off the yoke you have laid upon me. To his great joy he found a small garret-door in the roof of the opposite house open. “You are unjust and quixotic, Anna, you have no right to treat any one as you are treating me.
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