" "Most likely," observed Jonathan, with a slight sneer; "the ghost of some highwayman who has just breathed his last in Newgate, no doubt. "You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild," rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. Where is Sir Rowland?" "In the library, your ladyship. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. But not so much a pig as that man. " "As many as you please, Sir Rowland," replied Jonathan, resuming his seat.
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