“You and Anna,” she said, “seem to have stumbled upon a mare’s nest. 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. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. “It isn’t objections exactly. She seized the key, and he grasped her hand and squeezed it roughly and painfully between the handle and the ward as she tried to turn it. He had done this a dozen times on the way from his office. “Think of the mockery!” she said. Sometimes I think she’s tired of us.
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