“No, no,” she cried. "Hell's curses!" muttered Jonathan between his teeth; "that fool will ruin all. She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. Let her see if she could manage this one, perhaps turn all to suit herself? ‘What do you think to do with me now?’ The captain lowered the pistol. Without inquiring into the correctness of the latter part of the story, it may be sufficient to state, that Black Mary was a person in whom Jack Sheppard thought he could confide, and, as Edgeworth Bess was incapable of much further exertion, he determined to leave her in the old woman's care till the following night, while he shifted for himself and fulfilled his design—for, however rash or hazardous a project might be, if once conceived, Jack always executed it,—of visiting Jonathan Wild at his house in the Old Bailey. Because she states her case in a tangle, drags it through swamps of nonsense, it doesn’t alter the fact that she is right. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage.
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