Not a word had been exchanged between the two boys on the road. He went on with his song, accompanying it with the most ridiculous grimaces: "When years were gone by, she began to rue Her love for the gentleman, (meaning you!) 'I slighted the journeyman fond,' quoth she, 'But where is my gallant of high degree? Where! where! Oh! where is my gallant of high degree?' Ho! ho! ho!" "What are you doing here!" demanded Thames. And go quickly that I may finish to search. That's the way it goes. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. No one. Better even than these. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue.
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