” He caught her wrist and turned her face towards him. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. I just don’t know where to start. While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said.
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