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. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate. Ha! ha! What have I left but despair and madness? Promise me one thing, Mr. ’ ‘Only because you did not tell me entirely the story? That is silly.
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