" "I cannot repent,—I cannot pray," replied Jack, recovering his hardened demeanour. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Your husband could have told you that. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less.
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