"Dog!" cried Wild, freeing himself by a powerful effort, and dealing Jack a violent blow with the heavy bludgeon, which knocked him backwards, "you are not yet a match for Jonathan Wild. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. One wants helpers and protectors—and clean water. My garden-close would be a better thing than that. "Put down your burthen, monster!" shouted Wood, pointing an immense blunderbuss at him.
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