Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. But this was important. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. 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 do not wish to make impertinent inquiries into your private life.
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