Ireton, was appointed to the office, stood with a hammer in one hand, and a punch in the other, near the great stone block, ready to fulfil his duty. After all, this could never be the black sheep. 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. ‘Oh, peste. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years.
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