Wood, in a taunting tone. "It's wretched enough, indeed, Sir," rejoined the widow; "but, poor as it is, it's better than the cold stones and open streets. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe. He rolled onto his belly, freeing himself from her hands, pushing her away. “You’ll be there, right?” She asked, hearing his breathing audibly jump. Purney, the present ordinary of Newgate.
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