Eight per cent. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. Ah!" she screamed, with a sudden change of manner; and pointing to the window, which Jack had left open, and at which a dark figure was standing, "there is Jonathan Wild!" "Betrayed!" exclaimed Jack, glancing in the same direction.
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