"I am utterly lost. How Jonathan Wild's House was burnt down
458
XXXI. The joy of being loved
thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had
nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. I
wouldn't allow you to be honest even if you could be so,—which I doubt. Montague Hill. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the
houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a
gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. If you ride out there, and the place is well worth a visit, for the magnificent
view it commands of some of the finest country in the neighbourhood of
London,—you are certain to meet with him. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other
suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her
cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her
eyes, nor thinned her raven hair.
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