There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him. While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp black leather—the Holy Bible. “My God!” he said again. And, now, to find a messenger. ’ Upon which, she darted through the library door, galvanising both the sergeant and his two militiamen into action. “Are you A, B, C, or D?” he asked.
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