I don’t understand the workings of a gentleman’s mind. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it. I told her it was the end. He is a knight. Like a trollop in heat. On that night, I surrendered myself to Jonathan Wild, and became— what I am. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections.
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