"Then, the story of his death was false. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. “You can’t think that I’m fool enough to be put off like this. Leave me behind: I'm not afraid. He began to talk again in quick undertones that she could not clearly hear. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. 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. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered.
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