Towards night, however, he ventured out, and walked on towards London. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. “May I ask whether you are staying with friends in town?” he inquired deferentially. And if I hadn't been thirsty, that poor boob would have made a sure getaway and left James Boyle high and dry among the moth-balls! Oh, the old dome works once every so often. An hour was then passed in conversation as to the possibility of rendering any assistance to Jack; in deploring his unhappy destiny; and in the consideration of the course to be pursued in reference to Jonathan Wild. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. Gosse would have killed me, and perhaps in the fight I might kill him.
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