She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. "They imagine their work is done. But that bridge was more remarkable than any the metropolis now possesses. Norris. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. The Disguise. I'll eat them when we start. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter. Nay, for aught I know, some of them may even now have got scent of me.
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