Think, ma’am. ToC Scarcely an hour after the horrible occurrence just related, as Jonathan Wild was seated in the audience-chamber of his residence at the Old Bailey, occupied, like Peachum, (for whose portrait he sat,) with his account-books and registers, he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Quilt Arnold, who announced Jack Sheppard and Blueskin. But there was something else; and in his befogged mental state the comparison eluded him. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Also Lucy, who had been so much her friend.
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