it’s open. Besides," added he, opening the shawl in which the infant was wrapped, and throwing the light of the candle full upon its sickly, but placid features, "it's sinful to repine while you've a child like this to comfort you. Do not believe it, Madam. “That’s it,” she said. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy.
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