"The pocket-book you prigged contained the letters I wanted. And, if you'll give me such a smack of your sweet lips, Miss, as you've just given Thames, I'll take myself off in less than no time. . Cloud back of your hat!" He opened his eyes again. I do not desire to extenuate my guilt—far less to defend it; but I would show you, and such as you —who, happily, are exempted from trials like mine—how much misery has to do with crime. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. "Egad!" exclaimed Wood, "you've hit the right nail on the head, anyhow. Her hair is like, white blonde, but trust me, it’s not her natural color.
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