“The fellow is not such a blackguard, after all. I do not wish that the soldiers there will see it shine. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. 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. ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Gerald. It was the only way to make the monthly bills.
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