A florid-looking young woman rose up and accosted him eagerly. 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. The lines about his mouth gradually softened. "They shall not harm you, my love!" she exclaimed. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. Many’s the bullets I’ve dug out of fellows in my time.
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