Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her. Tickle the ears of their reverences with any idle nonsense you please: but tell them nothing you care to have repeated. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. ‘I have a very good mind to do so, imbecile. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. " "Loved me! You!" "I loved you," continued Jonathan, "and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire.
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