She spoke slowly. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. " "I'm a queer girl," she replied with a smile. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. " As he said this, the carpenter patted the cheek of the little object of his benevolent professions, and, in so doing, unintentionally aroused him from his slumbers. Though there is something to be said for your idea of a secret convent, at least as a hiding place.
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