‘Espéce de diable,’ she screamed. The man lingered. “Please come by. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. 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. A hundred pounds to the man who takes him.
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