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ToC Jonathan Wild's first object, as soon as he had made good his retreat, was to ascertain what had become of his janizaries, and, if possible, to release them. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. The wish was vain: and, endeavouring to banish every earthly thought, he addressed himself deeply and sincerely to prayer. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. ‘You’re the most troublesome wretch I’ve ever encountered,’ he told her bitterly. \" \"I'm sorry I didn't call. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. Wild wishes to keep a man out of the way, he'll speedily find the means to do so. I’m sorry to hurt your feelings. "You shall not go, adorable girl," cried Kneebone, catching her in his arms, "till you have answered me. I was rude and stupid. She would rend him limb from limb like a fiend if only she could move.
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