At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. Again returning to the main road, he passed through Clapton; and turning off on the left, arrived at the foot of Stamford Hill. “I may be leaving where I am in a few days, so very likely you will be no better off. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting.
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