’ ‘We are not all of us so empty-headed, Melusine,’ pleaded Miss Froxfield. I wouldn't trust a Malay, not if he were reared in the Vatican. I'm as much astonished as you. Capes came back into her mind. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. It is positively hateful to think of it. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her.
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