She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. Anna did not pause, but she looked over her shoulder with slightly lifted eyebrows. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. Then, if you weren’t looking, he’d get five feet closer.
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