And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. You are wholly in my power. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. You are my wife, and I am determined to claim you. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. " "It's mine, I'll be sworn," rejoined Wood. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope. They’re just all men, and no one is safe from scandal.
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