Sections and pages had been pasted together, and all through both Testaments a word had been blotted out. "Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. The audience clapped more heartily. Wood, severely, "and go to bed. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. You told him there wasn't anything in the pockets?" "Yes. “They are coming past our table. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries.
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