Lucy followed her. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed. "I swear it," rejoined Jonathan, readily. Whenever you grow impatient with her, remember the folly of her father. The floor was thickly strewn with sawdust and shavings; and across the room ran a long and wide bench, furnished at one end with a powerful vice; next to which three nails driven into the boards served, it would appear from the lump of unconsumed tallow left in their custody, as a substitute for a candlestick.
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