. That is how I learned that there were such things as novels. However this may be, such was the ill report of the place that few passed along the Old Bailey without bestowing a glance of fearful curiosity at its dingy walls, and wondering what was going on inside them; while fewer still, of those who paused at the door, read, without some internal trepidation, the formidable name—inscribed in large letters on its bright brass-plate—of JONATHAN WILD. She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. Gosse sagged under the impact, knocking over the card table, and falling to sit, half stunned, the discharged pistol flying from his slackened grasp. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old.
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