Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. "Do you take me for a thiefcatcher, like Jonathan Wild, that you dare to affront me by such a proposal?" "No offence, Sir," rejoined the jailer, humbly. "Shpeak up, vill you?" cried Abraham, rapping his knuckles against the hatch. I don’t believe in the faults.
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