Listen, you. My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. And such slight relief as I can afford should have been offered earlier, if I'd known where you'd taken refuge after your unfortunate husband's—" "Execution, you would say, Sir," added Mrs. Knap. What is your father's business?" The question was an impertinence, but Ruth was not aware of that. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. Burn your palette and your easel. Unless they remind him now and then not to.
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