Taking his new purchase under his arm, Jack proceeded to a small tavern in the same street, where, having ordered dinner, he went to a bed-room to attire himself. Ain't you, Jacky darling?" "Not quite, Poll," returned Mr. “Kick aht at ‘em!” though, indeed, she went now with Christian meekness, resenting only the thrusting policemen’s hands. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Supper was spaghetti and Italian sausage that night.
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