“That’s it,” she said. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. He gently took the roses from her and laid them on the pillow. "'Odd's-my-life! what's this?" exclaimed the carpenter, looking at the superscription of one of them. Eyebrows knitting, she looked towards the ground a few feet away from him, guiltily. "Your son's father was a thief; and Jonathan Wild (unless I'm misinformed,) was his friend,—so it's not unnatural he should show some partiality towards Jack. 8.
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