That's the way she strikes me. "There's a guinea to drink our health," she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand. "Jack!" exclaimed Thames. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. She isn't used to cities. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword.
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