" "Odd's me! do you think so?" cried the host of the Trumpeter. The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrotwise. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. Where even to be a Catholic, they say, is to be looked upon with scorn and disgust. 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 you yourself,” she exclaimed, glancing into his face, “you too look tired. "You two … both of you! But for you I couldn't have done it. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. I'll keep it for your sake. I want to tell every one. 176 “No, it’s very good. “Number 13, please, cabman.
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