“It’s my fault. "Tom," continued Kneebone, calling to the shop-boy, "don't go home. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. ToC Nearly nine years after the events last recorded, and about the middle of May, 1724, a young man of remarkably prepossessing appearance took his way, one afternoon, along Wych Street; and, from the curiosity with which he regarded the houses on the left of the road, seemed to be in search of some particular habitation. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. I have gone without dinner for three nights, and—come in.
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