The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. “You must be the Miss Pellissier of whom David has told me so much,” he said, shyly. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. So, by way of gaining time, he resolved to question him further. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. She looked paler than ever; but her countenance, though bewildered, did not exhibit the alarm which might naturally have been anticipated from the strange and perplexing scene presented to her view. " "Alas!" cried Mrs. "You are my prisoner, Jack.
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