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. The musician. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. He panted for a moment with unuttered replies, and then, with a scornful gesture, got up and left the cell. We will go to Ostend by the early morning boat and choose a hiding place from there.
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