"I wouldn't force him for the world: but if he don't tip the stivers, may I be cursed if he don't get a taste of the aqua pompaginis. You can live just about how you like. Dear me! if there isn't his knock. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. I knew it was only a matter of time before the boys started paying attention to you, Lucy. But, on the bursting of that bubble, his hopes vanished with it. Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. Wood's," was the reply.
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