“But why, Lucy? Who is it
145
that you are trying to hide from? John?”
Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly
proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of
his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's
Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. To his consternation,
she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel,
with both hands about the butt. "
"You'd better send him," jeered the turnkey. The crowd
dispersed in different directions, and most fortunately a heavy shower coming
on, put them altogether to flight. Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book.
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