Somehow I haven’t connected the idea with you. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. ” “I can assure you,” he answered, “that it isn’t a habit of mine. .
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