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She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. "Tell him that I—his adopted son, Thames Darrell— am detained here by Jonathan Wild. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. “None, I thank you,” he answered. This done, he unloosed the pulley, and the ponderous machine, which resembled a trough, slowly descended upon the prisoner's breast. “I think they do. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. He wished he had the time to solve this riddle, for it was a riddle, and four-square besides. You disgust me. That’s the fact about them. "Curse me, if I don't think all the world means to cross the Thames this fine night," observed Ben.
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