Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. "You will never leave me," sobbed the poor woman, straining him to her breast. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity.
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