Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. As the body was borne to the house in the arms of the farming-men, Mr. “I never planned it—And now I have begun—” She felt acutely that he was entitled to explanations, and as acutely that explanations were impossible that night. And yet, she would be easy prey in her present state of mind to any plausible, attractive scoundrel. Doesn’t matter a bit to me.
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