When Jack came to speak of Jonathan Wild, his countenance fell. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up
behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been
revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. But this was important. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one
else. But he knew. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and
quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of
a large and portentous body visible and tangible. But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the
severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of
all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public
exhibition. . You'll find me at supper.
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