The pair then descended Saffron-hill, threaded Field-lane, and, entering Holborn, passed over the little bridge which then crossed the muddy waters of Fleet-ditch, mounted Snow-hill, and soon drew in the bridle before Jonathan Wild's door. It was an impulse. ‘Because she, naturally enough, does not consider that it is in any way my affair. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. There she would wander about in the kindly darkness. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. It was not quite the search I intended,’ he said with a touch of selfmockery as he released her, ‘but success comes in all sorts of unexpected ways. .
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