Wood the carpenter. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. “But, how,” he said, sitting up astonished beyond measure, “not go on?” “I have been thinking while you have been talking. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. Never! And they don’t know it! They have no idea of it. "There's a guinea to drink our health," she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand. If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him. She was a lovely girl, attired in deep mourning, and having an expression of profound sorrow on her charming features. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street.
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