—Jonathan Wild: August 31st, 1724. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. However, confession of a fault makes half amends for it. Earles scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully. He was walking listlessly along, well-dressed, debonnair, good-looking. "Holloa—what's that?" cried Austin, starting up. The area was sparsely populated. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling.
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