For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. ‘Are you going to tell me?’ ‘But looking for proof,’ Melusine uttered impatiently. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE.
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