On the day he carried the manuscript to Copeley's he brought back a packet of letters, magazines, and newspapers. Jonathan Wild's House in the Old Bailey. She would never, never go back. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn. "Altogether unsuccessful, Sir," said the chief turnkey, with a look of disappointment, not unmixed with apprehension, as he approached Wild. It is not for myself I fear. The man turned at the exclamation, and so did several of the bystanders; but they could not make out who had uttered it.
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