I could see his little animal brain churning away, inventing plans for me, formulating his revenge. 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. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. ‘It weren’t my wish, miss, I can tell you that. For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus.
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