He had studied alchemy and astronomy, was a capable painter, and even wrote music. 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. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. ” “Anything except that,” he murmured. . ” He ruminated for a minute.
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