"But if my career were truly exhibited, it must be as one long struggle against destiny in the shape of—" "Jonathan Wild," interposed Gay. On this fresh outburst of the storm, Wood threw himself instinctively into the bottom of the boat, and clasping the little orphan to his breast, endeavoured to prepare himself to meet his fate. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness.
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