The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. We have to hang about in the interval. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. And, then, forsooth, she must needs prevent your hanging Jack Sheppard after the robbery in Wych Street, when you might have done so. We’ll have some buttered toast. ” “Of course I am.
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