But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. As the woollendraper's back was towards him, he did not perceive him, but continued his passionate addresses. " "So she was," replied the woollen-draper, helping himself to an enormous pinch of snuff with the air of a man who does not dislike to be rallied about his gallantry,—"so she was. Somewhere, where we can talk without interruption.
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