’ ‘It cannot be helped now. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. Enchanted. The noose was at its throat when I called for help. The doctor paced the room half a dozen times. 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. “Why could you not confide in us?” “Do what?” said Ann Veronica. I see now that you make a game with me indeed. There must be something we can do. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother.
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