Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. Maggot. "Confusion! the rascal must have picked my pocket of your letters," whispered Kneebone, "What's to be done?" "What's to be done! Why, I'm undone! How imprudent in you not to burn them. '—'They can't,' says I. ’ Disappointment flooded her. Never! Perhaps some day, quite soon, she might regret that breakfast-room. She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters.
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