The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. “Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again. " "Perhaps, I wasn't," returned Thames, gloomily, as the remembrance of Jonathan Wild's foul insinuation crossed him. Coarse as were the ruffian's notions of feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the surpassing loveliness of the fair creature, who had thus solicited his attention.
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