But you have, haven’t you?’ He tutted again. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. He felt himself collapse heavily onto her naked body, still inside her. . “My God!” he said again. A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. He is in Newgate. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded.
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