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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. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book.
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