She was quite tired of the stream of visitors and heard with relief the words of her newfound great-aunt, addressed to her son’s butler. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. She was always initiating petty breaches of discipline. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. “No, you didn’t. And that would spoil it.
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