"Look quick, Blueskin, and be cursed to you!" was growled in the deep tones of Jonathan Wild. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. I suppose I ought to have been a man. “You love some one else?” he repeated. He was placed in a coach, handcuffed, and heavily fettered, and guarded by a vast posse of officers to Temple Bar, where a fresh relay of constables escorted him to Westminster.
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