It was not a long prayer. It was the grand nursery of vice. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. If Ann Veronica could have put words to that song they would have been, “Hot-blooded marriage or none!” but she was far too indistinct in this matter to frame any words at all. She changed her mind that day, as her mother Marina had predicted. "I've said it," rejoined Jonathan, peremptorily.
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