The ragged edge. CHAPTER XXIII. You do not need my compliments. " "Well, I never was more surprised in my life," said the poet,—"never!" "He's just the man I expected to see," observed Hogarth, who, having arranged everything to Thornhill's satisfaction, had turned to look at the prisoner, and was now with his chin upon his wrist, and his elbow supported by the other hand, bending his keen gray eyes upon him, "just the man! Look at that light, lithe figure,—all muscle and activity, with not an ounce of superfluous flesh upon it. My garden-close would be a better thing than that. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley. Stanley, and paused.
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