“I am tired,” she said, “and I want to rest. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. Wood; "and pray, don't bring anybody with you,—especially Jonathan Wild. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Still, it was rather terrible to suspect that one had fallen from grace, but nevertheless the thing was possible. She had made a bed for herself out of wood and furs. What'll you be doing?" "What can I do?" asked Spurlock, raising his haggard face. It was exactly as Sebastian had foreseen. Her head swam.
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