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Sharples," replied Quilt; "lock 'em up. ‘You mean that his missus is pretending to be my mistress? Lord-a-mercy!’ ‘Precisely. Pray, walk in. Ten thousand steeds appeared to be trampling aloft, charged with the work of devastation. . "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. Sniveling brats, little fatherless bastards, you should breathe a sigh of relief. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes.
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