Wood fancied he heard the exulting laugh of Jonathan Wild. That Frenchie, that’s who she is. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. At this juncture, a cry was raised by a servant from below, that the robbers were flying through the garden.
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