'—'Pretty well,' says I; 'you're not badly off at the Friars, for that matter. Spurling, hastening to the rescue. 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. “I’ve got bad faults. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. The watch was again consulted. The blades on the top spun faster and faster. I hated the stuff. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands.
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