Try something. For a space he rode the whirligig. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. “They might do you good,” she remarked.
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