A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold. “I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. But also this must not go on. She allowed herself to be ejected, therefore, and retired to the parlour after cleansing the blood from her hands and her own slight wound in the kitchen. Oh, I grew fond of you as the years went by.
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