” “Don’t let there be any more. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. ’ ‘Aye, more’s the pity. The Idle Apprentice. ” She replied vaguely. She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. It was the first—and the last! At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. She reached for the door handle.
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