‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. I overheard Jonathan Wild's instructions to Quilt Arnold, and though he spoke in slang, and in an under tone, my quick ears, and acquaintance with the thieves' lingo, enabled me to make out every word he uttered. Otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. Perhaps I am still mad. Arrived at Paddington, he struck across Marylebone Fields,—for as yet the New Road was undreamed of,—and never moderated his speed until he reached the city. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace. But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter quite another. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. I don’t care what else there is in the world.
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