And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. Roused by the bell tolling for evening service, Jack left the house. Wood and Thames pass him, and followed at a foot's pace behind them. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. It slipped out—as did that “she”. I am quite sure that I do not know you.
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