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She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. And opposite to him, with a book in his hand,—but it couldn't be a prayer-book,—sat Jonathan Wild, in a parson's cassock and band. "It reminds you of a red sea suddenly petrified. And now for the fawney— the ring I mean. Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. Not at all. The salt air was fresher than the stale air in the manor. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. Alban's to-night.
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