"Close the wicket, Austin," vociferated Ireton, in an authoritative tone. But Ann Veronica had still to get to her chief topic. "But trifle with mo no longer. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. They were sounding more and more like Civic every day. Then he stood up and hailed a fiacre. Perhaps you'll give me in return some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet again.
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