"One of us has got to die," he panted. Rather! Who could help it?” He towered up over her and smiled down at her in his fatherly way. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. 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.
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