She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. Marthe has told me that the house comes to my mother, Ma—ry Re—men—ham. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. “Who can tell?” she said. John looked at his feet bashfully. 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. “I’m just off, aunt,” said Ann Veronica. The girl wished that she had come afoot, despite the knowledge that she would have suffered many inconveniences, accidental and intentional jostling, insolence and ribald jest.
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