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The pair then descended Saffron-hill, threaded Field-lane, and, entering Holborn, passed over the little bridge which then crossed the muddy waters of Fleet-ditch, mounted Snow-hill, and soon drew in the bridle before Jonathan Wild's door. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. They didn’t talk about it much, but Mike had been through some eerily similar foster homes in Florida, the where he was born. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. And yet, the doctor recalled an expression of the girl's: that it was not a dissipated face, only troubled.
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