‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. "Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to part with him, you shall have him without another word. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. I’m minded to take a whip and beat some sense into you. He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts. “I can’t believe it.
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