‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. ‘That was one of my own clever stories. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands.
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