The other bona roba, known amongst her companions as Mistress Poll Maggot, was a beauty on a much larger scale,—in fact, a perfect Amazon. Her eyelids fluttered with recognition, and she cried out softly. In the second, she was wretchedly poor, and assailed by temptations of which you can form no idea. She wanted to know. 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. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks.
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