"One whom you may perhaps have forgotten," replied the stranger, "but who can never forget the kindness he experienced at your hands, or at those of your excellent husband. Wild has made up his mind, and, when that's the case, all the persuasion on earth won't turn him. But I’m not a slut either, if that’s what you think. Oh God! pardon me. 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. “It will spoil your life. After I took the bills it was too late to turn back. He stood on the top step for a moment, lost in deep thought. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. “Yes, I see that. ” That conversation ended and he turned to her again. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast.
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