He needed to laugh, but only she laughed as he chuckled weakly. "I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. With the last glimmer of decency he had sent the daughter to his sister. In this state, he was laid upon a bench, to sleep off his drunken fit, while his wretched mother, in spite of her passionate supplications and resistance, was, by Blueskin's command, forcibly ejected from the house, and driven out of the Mint. She took her hat from the peg in the corner and began to put it on. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk.
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