'Damn that boy! He must have been asleep.

It's all imagination.' 'Traitor!' thought the spinster aunt.

'Dear Mr.Jingle was not deceiving me.

Ugh! how I hate the wretch!' The following conversation may serve to explain to our readers this apparently unaccountable alteration of deportment on the part of Mr.
Tracy Tupman.
The time was evening; the scene the garden.

There were two figures walking in a side path; one was rather short and stout; the other tall and slim.