The pair then descended Saffron-hill, threaded Field-lane, and, entering Holborn, passed over the little bridge which then crossed the muddy waters of Fleet-ditch, mounted Snow-hill, and soon drew in the bridle before Jonathan Wild's door. Few men could have done as much. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Kneebone, Van Galgebrok, and Baptist Kettleby—all of whom greeted him cordially. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. The kindly faced landlady had failed to catch his name, and said he was a tall, handsome gentleman with a great black mustache.
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